Peter Faultless to his brother Simon tales of night, in rhyme, and other poems. By the author of Night [i.e. Ebenezer Elliott] |
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 | Peter Faultless to his brother Simon |  |
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PETER FAULTLESS TO HIS BROTHER SIMON.
------Genus irritabile vatum.
Horace.
Horace.
5
Thou ablest scribbler in our chaste Review;
Who, darning old thoughts, mak'st them pass for new!
Still lash the imps who try, nor try in vain,
To wake the muses of Eliza's reign;
Call Scott “a croaker,” Southey “an old woman,”
Byron half god, half log, a thing uncommon.
Consistent most in inconsistency,
Be still the bigot's, slave's apology,
The judge, the law, of poets, and of song,
Simon the Faultless, always in the wrong,
Drivel of drivel, vapid in th' excess,
And all pretension, tho' pretensionless.
Behold no heav'n in Shakespeare's fretted sky;
Nor ev'n deplore with blushes, or a sigh,
The fate that gave the gate of bliss to thee,
Made thee Saint Peter, but denied the key!
Who, darning old thoughts, mak'st them pass for new!
Still lash the imps who try, nor try in vain,
To wake the muses of Eliza's reign;
Call Scott “a croaker,” Southey “an old woman,”
Byron half god, half log, a thing uncommon.
Consistent most in inconsistency,
Be still the bigot's, slave's apology,
The judge, the law, of poets, and of song,
Simon the Faultless, always in the wrong,
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And all pretension, tho' pretensionless.
Behold no heav'n in Shakespeare's fretted sky;
Nor ev'n deplore with blushes, or a sigh,
The fate that gave the gate of bliss to thee,
Made thee Saint Peter, but denied the key!
Oh! much miscall'd the synonime of slander,
And quite as fam'd for genius as for candour!
Thou, on whose forehead sapience, rooted well,
Grows, like the solemn horn, invisible!
Terror of Tyros! here transcrib'd, I send
The little ode which, yesterday, I penn'd.
And quite as fam'd for genius as for candour!
Thou, on whose forehead sapience, rooted well,
Grows, like the solemn horn, invisible!
Terror of Tyros! here transcrib'd, I send
The little ode which, yesterday, I penn'd.
ODE TO CHOPP'D CABBAGE AND DARKNESS TANGIBLE.
“Chopp'd Cabbage! food for destin'd author meet!
All hail, Chopp'd Cabbage! for thy juice is sweet;
Fed, erst, by thee, we utter truths divine,
And, soft as cabbage boil'd, th' unmeaning line,
While Simon's prose sounds just like verse of mine!
Hail, gloom in light! let hope before thee melt;
And long may Simon make his darkness felt.”
All hail, Chopp'd Cabbage! for thy juice is sweet;
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And, soft as cabbage boil'd, th' unmeaning line,
While Simon's prose sounds just like verse of mine!
Hail, gloom in light! let hope before thee melt;
And long may Simon make his darkness felt.”
What think'st thou of it? tell me by the post:
My wife likes all my odes, but this the most.
That it hath meaning thou wilt quickly see,
For sweetly it alludes to thee and me.
Curse on long poems! dull, heroic stuff!
Ten lines, at once, are excellence enough;
And know, each tedious canto-weaving churl,
A little ode is Cleopatra's pearl.
What, though despised? the tiny strains we prize
Are strains immortal—in their author's eyes;
Not the full flower on each rank soil that grows,
But gem-like petals of the classic rose;
Or, cast by rapid genius from behind,
His sweetest winglets of poetic wind.
Sweet, to read rhyme with emulation's tingle!
More sweet, the proser's languish into jingle!
Most sweet, to die of Liliputian lay,
In ecstasies of epigram, away!
Vain dreamer, who expects we will, or can,
Dissect his tedious incidents and plan!
Unread his book, if read, not understood,
To praise, or blame in generals, is good.
An epic insult cannot be forgiven!
What then? a sonnet is a little heaven,
The bard's Elysium, and the critic's too:
Measured with ease, in each dimension true.
It asks no skill—the eye can comprehend it;
Prais'd, without risk—if faultless, who can mend it?
But ere thou splash with censure, or applause,
Elaborate Epic, or high Drama—pause.
Ask if the crowd receive the numbers well?
Ask if the first edition promptly sell?
If beaux admire and buy it in a trice,
As every dunce did Milton's Paradise?
Then tremble at the uncertain deep no more,
But launch thy bark with safety from the shore;
Then read a page, to understand a volume,
And columns fill with grubs, on half a column.
Greatly, like thee, in trifles I delight,
Songs, chaste as those thou lov'st to praise, I write,
Like thee, for dull monotony I plead,
And what was poorly written, vilely read;
And long to lounge with coxcombs now and then,
And nonsense humbly lisp to childish men,
Who sing by rule, and safely praise by rote,
And idolize the fashion of a coat.
I, too, with all the critic's genuine spirit,
Would rather damn, than read a work of merit;
Hear the poor poet howl to all his pain,
And laugh to see him rant and rave in vain,
Write satires on us, and be damn'd again;
For nobler 'tis, and easier, to excel
In slandering basely, than in writing well,
And bliss to mark the pangs of bard in critic's hell.
My wife likes all my odes, but this the most.
That it hath meaning thou wilt quickly see,
For sweetly it alludes to thee and me.
Curse on long poems! dull, heroic stuff!
Ten lines, at once, are excellence enough;
And know, each tedious canto-weaving churl,
A little ode is Cleopatra's pearl.
What, though despised? the tiny strains we prize
Are strains immortal—in their author's eyes;
Not the full flower on each rank soil that grows,
But gem-like petals of the classic rose;
Or, cast by rapid genius from behind,
His sweetest winglets of poetic wind.
Sweet, to read rhyme with emulation's tingle!
More sweet, the proser's languish into jingle!
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In ecstasies of epigram, away!
Vain dreamer, who expects we will, or can,
Dissect his tedious incidents and plan!
Unread his book, if read, not understood,
To praise, or blame in generals, is good.
An epic insult cannot be forgiven!
What then? a sonnet is a little heaven,
The bard's Elysium, and the critic's too:
Measured with ease, in each dimension true.
It asks no skill—the eye can comprehend it;
Prais'd, without risk—if faultless, who can mend it?
But ere thou splash with censure, or applause,
Elaborate Epic, or high Drama—pause.
Ask if the crowd receive the numbers well?
Ask if the first edition promptly sell?
If beaux admire and buy it in a trice,
As every dunce did Milton's Paradise?
Then tremble at the uncertain deep no more,
But launch thy bark with safety from the shore;
Then read a page, to understand a volume,
And columns fill with grubs, on half a column.
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Songs, chaste as those thou lov'st to praise, I write,
Like thee, for dull monotony I plead,
And what was poorly written, vilely read;
And long to lounge with coxcombs now and then,
And nonsense humbly lisp to childish men,
Who sing by rule, and safely praise by rote,
And idolize the fashion of a coat.
I, too, with all the critic's genuine spirit,
Would rather damn, than read a work of merit;
Hear the poor poet howl to all his pain,
And laugh to see him rant and rave in vain,
Write satires on us, and be damn'd again;
For nobler 'tis, and easier, to excel
In slandering basely, than in writing well,
And bliss to mark the pangs of bard in critic's hell.
Thou more than Johnson, in verbosity,
Than Pope in smoothness! who shall vie with thee?
Weave verse, without or merit, or defect,
And write the Babylonish dialect?
Richly, in scraps of sad translation, flows
The thick molasses of thy rhyming prose,
Darkening our sage Review, that all may see
No poet living can translate, but thee;
And still I wonder, (as, at length, I tell thee,)
The murder'd ancients never rose to fell thee.
But who, like thee, infallible in lies,
Can slander genius, alias criticise?
Let malice say (for what can malice less?)
That, in our censure, we our fear express,
Poor mediocrity's affrighted yell,
And writhing envy's hiss, that startles hell.
Shalt thou, for taunts, the scourge, thy hope below,
And, with the scourge, thy very soul forego?
Tithe of the tenth part of a tailor's! No.
Than Pope in smoothness! who shall vie with thee?
Weave verse, without or merit, or defect,
And write the Babylonish dialect?
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The thick molasses of thy rhyming prose,
Darkening our sage Review, that all may see
No poet living can translate, but thee;
And still I wonder, (as, at length, I tell thee,)
The murder'd ancients never rose to fell thee.
But who, like thee, infallible in lies,
Can slander genius, alias criticise?
Let malice say (for what can malice less?)
That, in our censure, we our fear express,
Poor mediocrity's affrighted yell,
And writhing envy's hiss, that startles hell.
Shalt thou, for taunts, the scourge, thy hope below,
And, with the scourge, thy very soul forego?
Tithe of the tenth part of a tailor's! No.
Classic like thee, though less profound than thou,
Snarl'd once Ben Jonson; but who heeds him now
Less learn'd the Caliban that Shakespeare drew;
But Ben, all envy, prov'd the portrait true.
Grinning, he rail'd, and gasp'd for brains and breath;
But Shakespeare smil'd, and still fools read Macbeth.
Then, Simon, droop not thou! With spleen elate,
Vent all thou hast, and leave th' effect to fate.
Let irony applaud thy depth, thy skill;
Let no fool equal thee in writing ill;
Curtail'd in soul, let pedantry suffice;
Oppose to truth thy shield of prejudice;
Excel even Darwin in the Fudge sublime;
Then print critiques that emulate my rhyme;
And pour the oil of eulogy on those
Whose lofty verses ape thy lifeless prose.
Though Scott shall live, like sin in deathless fire,
And future Byrons read him, and admire;
A better doom than Ben's awaits thy lies,
If thee oblivion's self shall patronize.
Snarl'd once Ben Jonson; but who heeds him now
Less learn'd the Caliban that Shakespeare drew;
But Ben, all envy, prov'd the portrait true.
Grinning, he rail'd, and gasp'd for brains and breath;
But Shakespeare smil'd, and still fools read Macbeth.
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Vent all thou hast, and leave th' effect to fate.
Let irony applaud thy depth, thy skill;
Let no fool equal thee in writing ill;
Curtail'd in soul, let pedantry suffice;
Oppose to truth thy shield of prejudice;
Excel even Darwin in the Fudge sublime;
Then print critiques that emulate my rhyme;
And pour the oil of eulogy on those
Whose lofty verses ape thy lifeless prose.
Though Scott shall live, like sin in deathless fire,
And future Byrons read him, and admire;
A better doom than Ben's awaits thy lies,
If thee oblivion's self shall patronize.
Should some plain rustic, fac'd with impudence,
Bid thee translate thy jargon into sense;
Hard is the task (and do not thou begin it)
To write no meaning, and find meaning in it.
Should some sly school-boy, o'er his grammar squatting,
Ask, “Who was't taught thee, what he knew not, Latin?”
Say, that thy patron paid, and paid enough,
To make a prodigy of stubborn stuff.
“What are thy powers?” should some prick'd poet cry;
Say, fudge and Latin all thy wants supply;
Say, quoted Latin, (well misunderstood,)
Not English,—though we'd write it if we could;
(But this apart,—the vulgar must not know it;
Oh, tell it not in Gath, thou fear'd of poet!)
Say, quoted Latin proves thy learned pains,
And misapplied, atones for lack of brains;
Latin, which taught Demosthenes to speak,
And made old Homer write so well—in Greek.
Should sceptics still, with intellects awry,
Presume to doubt thy learned stupidity,
Chop from thy solid sconce a fragment ample,
And, by the waggon, send the ponderous sample,
(As curious folks might do by th' Sheffield air,)
And make the unbelievers gasp and stare.
And should the times grow worse, as some expect,
Pack sundry parcels of thine intellect,
Swear that Bœotia's densest can't excel it,
Call't “mist of mind,” and in Newfoundland sell it;
For there the happy people feed on vapour,
Just like thy readers,—but they save their paper.
Bid thee translate thy jargon into sense;
Hard is the task (and do not thou begin it)
To write no meaning, and find meaning in it.
Should some sly school-boy, o'er his grammar squatting,
Ask, “Who was't taught thee, what he knew not, Latin?”
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To make a prodigy of stubborn stuff.
“What are thy powers?” should some prick'd poet cry;
Say, fudge and Latin all thy wants supply;
Say, quoted Latin, (well misunderstood,)
Not English,—though we'd write it if we could;
(But this apart,—the vulgar must not know it;
Oh, tell it not in Gath, thou fear'd of poet!)
Say, quoted Latin proves thy learned pains,
And misapplied, atones for lack of brains;
Latin, which taught Demosthenes to speak,
And made old Homer write so well—in Greek.
Should sceptics still, with intellects awry,
Presume to doubt thy learned stupidity,
Chop from thy solid sconce a fragment ample,
And, by the waggon, send the ponderous sample,
(As curious folks might do by th' Sheffield air,)
And make the unbelievers gasp and stare.
And should the times grow worse, as some expect,
Pack sundry parcels of thine intellect,
13
Call't “mist of mind,” and in Newfoundland sell it;
For there the happy people feed on vapour,
Just like thy readers,—but they save their paper.
Mute hears conceit, while self and folly teach:
Bigots preach pride, and practise what they preach:
So, like spoil'd children, genuine critics still
Adore their own dear petulance of will.
In music, all who can count eight are singers;
So, all are poets who can count their fingers.
Yet, dread and shun the sin of bastard rhyme,
Where “shone,” with “throne,” is vilely made to chime;
For still such coupling shall be deem'd by me
Rank crambo, whoredom, and adultery.
Write thou by th' compass, and th' unerring string,
Sweet strains, that we, who cannot read, may sing.
Let not thy line, like drunken wight perplex'd,
In reeling errors, run into the next.
Seize thou each wordy truant by the throat,
Pass thou thy five feet rule o'er every thought;
And bid reviewing knights, where'er they go,
Hang all but our firm, Epigram and Co.
Nor stop thou there, but write what none else may,
An epic in acrostics, or a play!
With fist of wool, strike sense, the smiler, dumb;
Dire difficulties make, and overcome,
Not to poor purpose, but to none at all;
Call faultless that which Crabbe would senseless call;
Cram thy bless'd song with labour'd stuff to fulness,
And be, at least, original in dulness.
So shall our perfect art, in its result,
Be best amusement for the babe adult.
So shall sage Sing-song bend th' adoring knee,
And Titum, Tumti, Tweedle-dum, to thee,
Grand metropolitan of Tweedle-dee!
So shall the dread, oh, Simon, of thy shears
Make each true poet loath to show his ears.
So, hungry as a rat, shall genius prowl,
And at thy line, thy rule, thy compass growl;
Yet scorn, tho' lean as death, and fed on hope,
To ape the mimic of the apes of Pope,
And boast of bondage. In the crowded fair,
So shall the pedlar clothe his honour'd ware
In lawn Parnassian; and the chandler see
His counter shagg'd with shades of poesy—
Immortal! If the fates no shop-fiend move
To rend, with stormy hand, the Heliconian grove.
Bigots preach pride, and practise what they preach:
So, like spoil'd children, genuine critics still
Adore their own dear petulance of will.
In music, all who can count eight are singers;
So, all are poets who can count their fingers.
Yet, dread and shun the sin of bastard rhyme,
Where “shone,” with “throne,” is vilely made to chime;
For still such coupling shall be deem'd by me
Rank crambo, whoredom, and adultery.
Write thou by th' compass, and th' unerring string,
Sweet strains, that we, who cannot read, may sing.
Let not thy line, like drunken wight perplex'd,
In reeling errors, run into the next.
Seize thou each wordy truant by the throat,
Pass thou thy five feet rule o'er every thought;
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Hang all but our firm, Epigram and Co.
Nor stop thou there, but write what none else may,
An epic in acrostics, or a play!
With fist of wool, strike sense, the smiler, dumb;
Dire difficulties make, and overcome,
Not to poor purpose, but to none at all;
Call faultless that which Crabbe would senseless call;
Cram thy bless'd song with labour'd stuff to fulness,
And be, at least, original in dulness.
So shall our perfect art, in its result,
Be best amusement for the babe adult.
So shall sage Sing-song bend th' adoring knee,
And Titum, Tumti, Tweedle-dum, to thee,
Grand metropolitan of Tweedle-dee!
So shall the dread, oh, Simon, of thy shears
Make each true poet loath to show his ears.
So, hungry as a rat, shall genius prowl,
And at thy line, thy rule, thy compass growl;
Yet scorn, tho' lean as death, and fed on hope,
To ape the mimic of the apes of Pope,
And boast of bondage. In the crowded fair,
So shall the pedlar clothe his honour'd ware
15
His counter shagg'd with shades of poesy—
Immortal! If the fates no shop-fiend move
To rend, with stormy hand, the Heliconian grove.
Far from the white man's frown, to western skies
The vanquish'd native of Columbia flies,
And, flying, hears, amid the sunless brake,
His father's spirits, in each hissing snake,
Taunt their degenerate offspring! On his soul,
Black in the torrent's growling depth they scowl;
Invoke the storms, on every mountain's brow,
To chill him with the forest-wail of woe;
Flap o'er his eyes the night-bird's ominous pinion,
And, viewless, chase the desert's frighted minion;
Or, gamboling with the vollied rain in ire,
Deride him with their dreadful laugh of fire,
Shout in the voice of the contending cloud,
Howl to his heart, and smite their hands aloud.
Shame on his temples pales the raven's wing:
He lies him down upon the serpent's sting,
No more to feel it! and the white man's child
Crops on his grave the floweret of the wild.
Thus, high-soul'd Genius, vanquish'd in the strife
With Envy's shield of lead, and viewless knife,
Flies far, and pines aloof, but scorns to weep.
He calls no more his “spirits from the deep;”
Diseas'd in soul, he dreads to meet the morn,
And those who pity seem to him to scorn.
Vainly in woods of deepest shade he lingers;
The very bushes seem to count their fingers,
Emptiness calls for rhyme in every breeze,
And tortured syllables seem to leaf the trees.
He rushes to thy dreamless bed, Despair!
But Malice, with the stake, shall find him there,
And deep transfix him in unhallow'd clay:
The fools he scorn'd shall drag his faults to day,
Gloat on his woes, till rancour hath her fill,
And, true to baseness, mangle whom they kill.
The vanquish'd native of Columbia flies,
And, flying, hears, amid the sunless brake,
His father's spirits, in each hissing snake,
Taunt their degenerate offspring! On his soul,
Black in the torrent's growling depth they scowl;
Invoke the storms, on every mountain's brow,
To chill him with the forest-wail of woe;
Flap o'er his eyes the night-bird's ominous pinion,
And, viewless, chase the desert's frighted minion;
Or, gamboling with the vollied rain in ire,
Deride him with their dreadful laugh of fire,
Shout in the voice of the contending cloud,
Howl to his heart, and smite their hands aloud.
Shame on his temples pales the raven's wing:
He lies him down upon the serpent's sting,
16
Crops on his grave the floweret of the wild.
Thus, high-soul'd Genius, vanquish'd in the strife
With Envy's shield of lead, and viewless knife,
Flies far, and pines aloof, but scorns to weep.
He calls no more his “spirits from the deep;”
Diseas'd in soul, he dreads to meet the morn,
And those who pity seem to him to scorn.
Vainly in woods of deepest shade he lingers;
The very bushes seem to count their fingers,
Emptiness calls for rhyme in every breeze,
And tortured syllables seem to leaf the trees.
He rushes to thy dreamless bed, Despair!
But Malice, with the stake, shall find him there,
And deep transfix him in unhallow'd clay:
The fools he scorn'd shall drag his faults to day,
Gloat on his woes, till rancour hath her fill,
And, true to baseness, mangle whom they kill.
Let all, who trash and Cumberland admire,
Condemn thy censure, and call folly fire;
To letter'd woe her tear let pity pay,
Dull Franklin praise harsh Cowper's tasteless lay,
And genius, and the bleeding heart, deplore,
O'er Kirk White's dust, the flower that blooms no more.
But still ply thou the finger-counting trade;
Be still of sense and scoundrel wit afraid;
Still curse the ravings of the Avonian Seer,
And all that Milton lov'd—the style severe,
The iron verse, with happiest labour wrought,
The verbal strength that girds the might of thought.
Still, when thou writ'st, write nonsense! smooth and fine,
In wiry length, drawl out the empty line;
For brew we flat blank verse, or dulcet rhyme,
The sterling senseless is the true sublime.
Then (by thy scull, I swear!) our stuff is good;
And damn'd be he whose verse is understood!
Damn'd to be read! his snowy couplets stain'd,
And every page with sweaty thumbs profan'd;
While not an eye, with envious leer malign,
Presumes to glance on page of thine, or mine.
Proud may we be to sleep “in virgin sheets!”
Even Talma spouts Racine to empty seats;
In France itself the Faultless loses ground;
All fly the perfect Drama's drowsy sound;
And, while spoil'd Shakespeare pleases in Voltaire,
Boileau reposes with the things which were.
Condemn thy censure, and call folly fire;
17
Dull Franklin praise harsh Cowper's tasteless lay,
And genius, and the bleeding heart, deplore,
O'er Kirk White's dust, the flower that blooms no more.
But still ply thou the finger-counting trade;
Be still of sense and scoundrel wit afraid;
Still curse the ravings of the Avonian Seer,
And all that Milton lov'd—the style severe,
The iron verse, with happiest labour wrought,
The verbal strength that girds the might of thought.
Still, when thou writ'st, write nonsense! smooth and fine,
In wiry length, drawl out the empty line;
For brew we flat blank verse, or dulcet rhyme,
The sterling senseless is the true sublime.
Then (by thy scull, I swear!) our stuff is good;
And damn'd be he whose verse is understood!
Damn'd to be read! his snowy couplets stain'd,
And every page with sweaty thumbs profan'd;
While not an eye, with envious leer malign,
Presumes to glance on page of thine, or mine.
18
Even Talma spouts Racine to empty seats;
In France itself the Faultless loses ground;
All fly the perfect Drama's drowsy sound;
And, while spoil'd Shakespeare pleases in Voltaire,
Boileau reposes with the things which were.
Thou tyrant Dwarf! who, hating still the tall,
Would'st to thy paltry standard level all!
Malignant instinct of pedantic dulness,
That feed'st on merit's pangs, and cram'st to fulness!
Swell to the Mammoth's bulk thy worshipp'd mouse,
And bid the lion deify a louse.
What! shall th' undazzl'd eagle from on high
Implore the bat to lead him thro' the sky?
What! shall our guides be blinder than the blind?
Must strength adore thine impotence of mind?
Aye, “dash Apollo from his throne of light!”
And let the hunch-back'd cripple, letter'd spite,
Shuffling and puff'd, as frog in fable big,
Place there a monkey in a periwig,
To snarl, and peep thro' glass at button-hole,
And whisk his sapient tail, in sign of soul.
Fly, fly to Thule, ere we singe thy wings,
Fly, Scott, and rest with unremember'd kings!
Hide, hide thee, Southey, in some savage wild,
And spout to trees thine “English undefil'd!”
Crabbe, burn thy rules, thy brains—unlearn thy trade;
Paint views for tea-pots, without light or shade!
Prais'd, dreaded Childe! some rhyming farce produce,
And barter Hippocrene for turnip-juice!
Mend, Harold, mend, thou heretic in disguise!
Mend, or consent to lose thy ears and eyes!
Lo, genius falls, and falls to rise no more!
His day Aurelian, and its pomp, are o'er:
Deep plung'd in darkness, who shall heed his pain,
Who mark the smile of his sublime disdain?
Art thou, too, fall'n—immortal and divine,—
Thou only giant who could'st vanquish time?
No—not Bœotia's mist, not envy's shade,
Not zealous Simon's diuretic aid,
Can quench thy torch, or hide, or dim its ray,
The star that never sets of mental day.
There needs no angel th' uncontroll'd to free,
No resurrection, deathless life, to thee!
Would'st to thy paltry standard level all!
Malignant instinct of pedantic dulness,
That feed'st on merit's pangs, and cram'st to fulness!
Swell to the Mammoth's bulk thy worshipp'd mouse,
And bid the lion deify a louse.
What! shall th' undazzl'd eagle from on high
Implore the bat to lead him thro' the sky?
What! shall our guides be blinder than the blind?
Must strength adore thine impotence of mind?
Aye, “dash Apollo from his throne of light!”
And let the hunch-back'd cripple, letter'd spite,
Shuffling and puff'd, as frog in fable big,
Place there a monkey in a periwig,
19
And whisk his sapient tail, in sign of soul.
Fly, fly to Thule, ere we singe thy wings,
Fly, Scott, and rest with unremember'd kings!
Hide, hide thee, Southey, in some savage wild,
And spout to trees thine “English undefil'd!”
Crabbe, burn thy rules, thy brains—unlearn thy trade;
Paint views for tea-pots, without light or shade!
Prais'd, dreaded Childe! some rhyming farce produce,
And barter Hippocrene for turnip-juice!
Mend, Harold, mend, thou heretic in disguise!
Mend, or consent to lose thy ears and eyes!
Lo, genius falls, and falls to rise no more!
His day Aurelian, and its pomp, are o'er:
Deep plung'd in darkness, who shall heed his pain,
Who mark the smile of his sublime disdain?
Art thou, too, fall'n—immortal and divine,—
Thou only giant who could'st vanquish time?
No—not Bœotia's mist, not envy's shade,
Not zealous Simon's diuretic aid,
20
The star that never sets of mental day.
There needs no angel th' uncontroll'd to free,
No resurrection, deathless life, to thee!
Is there a rhymster, musical as Pope,
A wholesale dealer in magnific trope,
Proud stiffest crambo's buckram'd Nash to be,
At war with grammar, but at peace with thee,
Tho' much 'twould pose the sovereign of pretence
To cull from half his stanzas six of sense?
Is there a sage of titum-tumti skill
Who, writing little, writes that little ill,
(Sweet school-boy jingle, meaningless as sweet,
Chaste thoughtlets, sinless as a virgin sheet,)
And steeps in numbers pure as scentless rose
The wond'rous things which gossips say in prose,
To form with labour, in his tranquil rabies,
A lullaby for intellectual babies?
Them shall our very hate of genius raise
To one hour's long eternity of praise,
Consistent folly laud them to the sky,
And malice growl applause, lest envy die.
When moral essays, sermons spoil'd with rhyme,
And back'd by Byron, fail to vanquish time;
When tuneful memory sleeps with tuneful hope;
Shall Scott, Crabbe, Southey, dare with fate to cope?
A wholesale dealer in magnific trope,
Proud stiffest crambo's buckram'd Nash to be,
At war with grammar, but at peace with thee,
Tho' much 'twould pose the sovereign of pretence
To cull from half his stanzas six of sense?
Is there a sage of titum-tumti skill
Who, writing little, writes that little ill,
(Sweet school-boy jingle, meaningless as sweet,
Chaste thoughtlets, sinless as a virgin sheet,)
And steeps in numbers pure as scentless rose
The wond'rous things which gossips say in prose,
To form with labour, in his tranquil rabies,
A lullaby for intellectual babies?
Them shall our very hate of genius raise
To one hour's long eternity of praise,
21
And malice growl applause, lest envy die.
When moral essays, sermons spoil'd with rhyme,
And back'd by Byron, fail to vanquish time;
When tuneful memory sleeps with tuneful hope;
Shall Scott, Crabbe, Southey, dare with fate to cope?
Is there a poet, whose congenial mind
Young Milton would have chos'n from all mankind?
And can that poet flatter in his lay
The literary bigots of the day,
And taunt with thankless sneer the men of might
Whose hands unbarr'd for him “the gates of light?”
Lo, virtue weeps o'er self-degraded worth!
Lo, kindred bards, the deathless of the earth,
Tremble with rage and grief in every limb,
And envy dulness, to be unlike him,
Compell'd to see, in agony and scorn,
The courser with the eyelids of the morn,
The fire-wing'd courser, stoop so meanly low,
Ev'n from Olympus, to salute a crow!
But we—on talents' golden deeds severe,—
Commend his wond'rous fault, in wond'ring fear;
Swear that he far the northern Bear surpasses,
And dub him almost equal to our asses;
Yet inly dread the thunder of his mane,
And curse his deviations from our lane,
And humbly bid him, if he would excel,
Respect its dear twin fences, trimm'd so well.
Young Milton would have chos'n from all mankind?
And can that poet flatter in his lay
The literary bigots of the day,
And taunt with thankless sneer the men of might
Whose hands unbarr'd for him “the gates of light?”
Lo, virtue weeps o'er self-degraded worth!
Lo, kindred bards, the deathless of the earth,
Tremble with rage and grief in every limb,
And envy dulness, to be unlike him,
Compell'd to see, in agony and scorn,
The courser with the eyelids of the morn,
The fire-wing'd courser, stoop so meanly low,
Ev'n from Olympus, to salute a crow!
22
Commend his wond'rous fault, in wond'ring fear;
Swear that he far the northern Bear surpasses,
And dub him almost equal to our asses;
Yet inly dread the thunder of his mane,
And curse his deviations from our lane,
And humbly bid him, if he would excel,
Respect its dear twin fences, trimm'd so well.
All hail to him, whose thoughts are as the wind
Free and unchainable,—the man whose mind
Glows like his heart, and shines instinct with light!
Let him review the work which he could write.
Hard is the task, and hourly harder, too,
To write a book in style and matter new,
Where sense and fancy are in splendour blent,
At once original and excellent.
But if to hunt for flaws, to merit blind,
Requires perfection, too, of other kind,
Grave folly, the ridiculous by rule,
And basest spleen, ne'er found but in a fool;
What wonder, if thy zealous lash assail'd
Cowper's first song, and for a time prevail'd?
What wonder, if thou try, so bravely well,
To crush young genius bursting from the shell,
Sure that the noble bird, once plum'd and freed,
Would soar, and spurn thy malice and thy creed?
What wonder, if—since cowards loudest boast,
And he who least deserves still claims the most—
Each prosing grandmamma, each sage old woman,
(Female or male,) each broken-knee'd and common
Slave of the monthly press, should rail to live?
Insolence is the fool's prerogative.
Proud of that art which in the dunce is nature,
Critic and dunce! conceit dilates his stature.
The very ease with which he gropes his way,
The ardour of the dupes who flock to pay
Gold for his dross, the frequent fractured head
Of thin-scull'd genius fell'd with fist of lead,
Make him mistake for truth the witticism,
That want of sense and shame is criticism.
His cap and crown, pedantic arrogance,
Blind as the mole in letter'd ignorance,
Vain as the Gropius of some modern Vandal,
Or queen of gossips taking tea and scandal,
He boasts his mean inglorious victories,
He boasts the very dulness of his lies.
Owl-eyed to splendour, eagle-ey'd to spy
Spots on the disk of glory, Envy's eye
Admires no loveliness, beholds no worth;
Her soul is darkness, for her brain is earth:
No joy she knows, but in another's smart;
No God she worships, but her own black heart.
Hell dreads her coming, with erected hair,
For, envy absent, 'tis Elysium there!
No fiend, o'er fiery broth, with hollow eye,
Pines to behold his neighbour's brimstone pye;
No sparkless devil damns, in scribbling ire,
The happier, hotter devil's pen of fire;
But Satan, pleas'd, resigns his earthly throne,
And swears our monthly hell exceeds his own
In dulness, darkness—every thing, but light:
Down, zealous Simon, set his dunces right!
Run, mother Ph—ps, teach his worship spite!
Free and unchainable,—the man whose mind
Glows like his heart, and shines instinct with light!
Let him review the work which he could write.
Hard is the task, and hourly harder, too,
To write a book in style and matter new,
Where sense and fancy are in splendour blent,
At once original and excellent.
But if to hunt for flaws, to merit blind,
Requires perfection, too, of other kind,
Grave folly, the ridiculous by rule,
And basest spleen, ne'er found but in a fool;
23
Cowper's first song, and for a time prevail'd?
What wonder, if thou try, so bravely well,
To crush young genius bursting from the shell,
Sure that the noble bird, once plum'd and freed,
Would soar, and spurn thy malice and thy creed?
What wonder, if—since cowards loudest boast,
And he who least deserves still claims the most—
Each prosing grandmamma, each sage old woman,
(Female or male,) each broken-knee'd and common
Slave of the monthly press, should rail to live?
Insolence is the fool's prerogative.
Proud of that art which in the dunce is nature,
Critic and dunce! conceit dilates his stature.
The very ease with which he gropes his way,
The ardour of the dupes who flock to pay
Gold for his dross, the frequent fractured head
Of thin-scull'd genius fell'd with fist of lead,
Make him mistake for truth the witticism,
That want of sense and shame is criticism.
His cap and crown, pedantic arrogance,
Blind as the mole in letter'd ignorance,
24
Or queen of gossips taking tea and scandal,
He boasts his mean inglorious victories,
He boasts the very dulness of his lies.
Owl-eyed to splendour, eagle-ey'd to spy
Spots on the disk of glory, Envy's eye
Admires no loveliness, beholds no worth;
Her soul is darkness, for her brain is earth:
No joy she knows, but in another's smart;
No God she worships, but her own black heart.
Hell dreads her coming, with erected hair,
For, envy absent, 'tis Elysium there!
No fiend, o'er fiery broth, with hollow eye,
Pines to behold his neighbour's brimstone pye;
No sparkless devil damns, in scribbling ire,
The happier, hotter devil's pen of fire;
But Satan, pleas'd, resigns his earthly throne,
And swears our monthly hell exceeds his own
In dulness, darkness—every thing, but light:
Down, zealous Simon, set his dunces right!
Run, mother Ph—ps, teach his worship spite!
25
Back to that isle, the banish'd maids of song
Let Southey lead, with stripling hand, along.
Struck by th' assassin's blow, let genius come,
Knock at his heart, and find her friend at home,
From her pierc'd brain to draw th' envenom'd steel,
And all but cure the wound which death must heal.
Let him, with Spenser's mastery, and his own,
Paint Madoc, David, Conrade, Rhoderic, Joan;
Wild Laila, fiction's cherub; in her sire
Evil, that will not hope; in Julian's ire,
Faith wounded, trampling glory in the dust,
Arm'd vengeance, almost in rebellion just;
What in Florinda? beauty, sorrow, worth,
A suffering angel, in the garb of earth.
Let him to light drag Hades; bid the deep,
Reserv'd for him, Fate's awful secrets keep;
And (wildest spirit, on the strongest wing)
Soar sightless heights, a matchless wreath to bring
From that bright heav'n, where none but he durst soar,
And never flower was snatch'd for truth before.
Triumphant o'er the ear-offending tone,
Sublimely mournful, let Sheaf's bard, alone,
Attain in rhyme great Shakespeare's rhymeless ease,
The pleasing sweet that never fails to please.
Tearing from want's dread woes the rags and all,
Let Crabbe the eye of startled ease appal,
Obtrude a gorgon on his dream of bliss,
And show poor human nature as it is.
Let Erin's child produce his wond'rous gem,
And set the emerald in her diadem,
That she, unrivall'd in her sons before,
May strike ev'n envy silent, bless'd with Moore.
What second Shakespeare, faultless without plan,
Creates anew the wond'rous Proteus, Man?
Who steals from Heav'n a pencil wildly true?
Scott, Scott alone, can draw as Shakespeare drew,
Dip the heath's bell in immortality,
Bid landscapes bloom in hues that cannot die,
Paint battle's rage, while awe his hand controls,
And sketch the surge of horror as it rolls;
Or, give the wild weird sisters' attributes
To her whose wildness well such horror suits,
More dire than they who made their presence—air,
Who seem'd not of the earth, and yet were there.
Let Byron, in his hurried line, condense
“Impassion'd music,” energy, and sense,
And proudly reign, with misanthropic scowl,
Lord of the realms of pathos and of soul;
Or snatch from Churchill's urn, with dreadful hand,
Resistless satire's asp, and torturing brand;
Or play at boyhood, with a seraph's smile,
Drink on love's lip the sweetness, with the guile,
Win wisdom's heart, by praising her darn'd hose,
And, laughing, rip her garment, in the close.
What, tho' their strains, with more than magic thrall,
Charm the great vulgar, and enchant the small?
Where are the feet which drowsy measures keep?
Where is the music of poetic sleep?
Let man and maid, in praise and price, enhance
The crambo novel, and the rhym'd romance;
While man and maid their merits stale discuss,
They leave the rest to—Dulness, and to us.
What need of mental light, and hues divine,
To please an eyeless intellect, like thine?
Let Southey lead, with stripling hand, along.
Struck by th' assassin's blow, let genius come,
Knock at his heart, and find her friend at home,
From her pierc'd brain to draw th' envenom'd steel,
And all but cure the wound which death must heal.
Let him, with Spenser's mastery, and his own,
Paint Madoc, David, Conrade, Rhoderic, Joan;
Wild Laila, fiction's cherub; in her sire
Evil, that will not hope; in Julian's ire,
Faith wounded, trampling glory in the dust,
Arm'd vengeance, almost in rebellion just;
What in Florinda? beauty, sorrow, worth,
A suffering angel, in the garb of earth.
Let him to light drag Hades; bid the deep,
Reserv'd for him, Fate's awful secrets keep;
And (wildest spirit, on the strongest wing)
Soar sightless heights, a matchless wreath to bring
From that bright heav'n, where none but he durst soar,
And never flower was snatch'd for truth before.
26
Sublimely mournful, let Sheaf's bard, alone,
Attain in rhyme great Shakespeare's rhymeless ease,
The pleasing sweet that never fails to please.
Tearing from want's dread woes the rags and all,
Let Crabbe the eye of startled ease appal,
Obtrude a gorgon on his dream of bliss,
And show poor human nature as it is.
Let Erin's child produce his wond'rous gem,
And set the emerald in her diadem,
That she, unrivall'd in her sons before,
May strike ev'n envy silent, bless'd with Moore.
What second Shakespeare, faultless without plan,
Creates anew the wond'rous Proteus, Man?
Who steals from Heav'n a pencil wildly true?
Scott, Scott alone, can draw as Shakespeare drew,
Dip the heath's bell in immortality,
Bid landscapes bloom in hues that cannot die,
Paint battle's rage, while awe his hand controls,
And sketch the surge of horror as it rolls;
Or, give the wild weird sisters' attributes
To her whose wildness well such horror suits,
27
Who seem'd not of the earth, and yet were there.
Let Byron, in his hurried line, condense
“Impassion'd music,” energy, and sense,
And proudly reign, with misanthropic scowl,
Lord of the realms of pathos and of soul;
Or snatch from Churchill's urn, with dreadful hand,
Resistless satire's asp, and torturing brand;
Or play at boyhood, with a seraph's smile,
Drink on love's lip the sweetness, with the guile,
Win wisdom's heart, by praising her darn'd hose,
And, laughing, rip her garment, in the close.
What, tho' their strains, with more than magic thrall,
Charm the great vulgar, and enchant the small?
Where are the feet which drowsy measures keep?
Where is the music of poetic sleep?
Let man and maid, in praise and price, enhance
The crambo novel, and the rhym'd romance;
While man and maid their merits stale discuss,
They leave the rest to—Dulness, and to us.
What need of mental light, and hues divine,
To please an eyeless intellect, like thine?
28
Eunuch in soul, and slave amid the free!
Still squeak thine exultation such to be,
That all the sons of jingle, as they pass,
May bless the half-bray of their viewless ass,
And, cursing sense, tho' by her scorn forgiv'n,
Ascend, in thought, thy ears, and reach their heav'n.
Proud of disgrace, as Dandies of their stays,
On want of candour build thy claim to praise;
Untried, condemn; create the fault unfound;
Invoke the gloom; with unseen dagger wound;
Damn into fame the merit that we hate;
With laugh'd at plaudits, plume each witling's pate;
And, with no meaning, since 'tis all thou hast,
Patch Latin nonsense on thine English fast,
As beggary, strutting in her best attire,
Sports rags for lace, and bids the world admire.
Why should not lacquer'd ware for genuine pass?
Though not Corinthian, Simon, thou art brass.
But say, when wilt thou, least a slave in rhyme,
Convert to crambo Young's unrhym'd sublime?
Ape meanly him, whose famine flatter'd vice,
And tag, once more, the lay of Paradise?
Regretted days! when causes vile combin'd
To Frenchify the genuine British mind!
No wight, to whom the soul of song was giv'n,
Could then for gold, or brass, sell “light from Heaven;”
But pining merit, poorest of the poor,
Saw every spaniel thrive, and every whore;
Most prais'd was he who best could shake his chains,
And he wrote best who had most lack of brains;
While scribblers fam'd, on Eden's poet frown'd,
And it was glory to be unrenown'd.
Go, call the dead, call Dryden from his urn,
Go, bid the rhyming dramatist return!
Go, wake the dust of Waller, and expose
To th' opiate snuff each true poetic nose!
Come bonds again, with ribald rhyme, along!
And reproscribe—not Milton, but his song.
Still squeak thine exultation such to be,
That all the sons of jingle, as they pass,
May bless the half-bray of their viewless ass,
And, cursing sense, tho' by her scorn forgiv'n,
Ascend, in thought, thy ears, and reach their heav'n.
Proud of disgrace, as Dandies of their stays,
On want of candour build thy claim to praise;
Untried, condemn; create the fault unfound;
Invoke the gloom; with unseen dagger wound;
Damn into fame the merit that we hate;
With laugh'd at plaudits, plume each witling's pate;
And, with no meaning, since 'tis all thou hast,
Patch Latin nonsense on thine English fast,
As beggary, strutting in her best attire,
Sports rags for lace, and bids the world admire.
Why should not lacquer'd ware for genuine pass?
Though not Corinthian, Simon, thou art brass.
But say, when wilt thou, least a slave in rhyme,
Convert to crambo Young's unrhym'd sublime?
Ape meanly him, whose famine flatter'd vice,
And tag, once more, the lay of Paradise?
29
To Frenchify the genuine British mind!
No wight, to whom the soul of song was giv'n,
Could then for gold, or brass, sell “light from Heaven;”
But pining merit, poorest of the poor,
Saw every spaniel thrive, and every whore;
Most prais'd was he who best could shake his chains,
And he wrote best who had most lack of brains;
While scribblers fam'd, on Eden's poet frown'd,
And it was glory to be unrenown'd.
Go, call the dead, call Dryden from his urn,
Go, bid the rhyming dramatist return!
Go, wake the dust of Waller, and expose
To th' opiate snuff each true poetic nose!
Come bonds again, with ribald rhyme, along!
And reproscribe—not Milton, but his song.
Once, blundering into fairness, wast thou known
(Wond'rous event!) to blush, and once alone:
Amaz'd, asham'd, thou stard'st, like waking Timon,
And I, too, stared aghast, and knew not Simon!
Back sank thy soul into its vapoury trance;
And, o'er the desert of thy countenance,
(That isleless sea, without or wave, or coast,)
Truth sought a gleam of sense, and wander'd lost.
But fate consol'd thee; for thy curs'd applause
Was deep damnation to the author's cause:
Tho' dipp'd in Heav'n, his song, unsold, unsought,
Was deem'd some faultless nothing good for nought;
And, had not Johnstone for pale merit carv'd,
Damn'd by thy praise, even Mickle might have starv'd.
(Wond'rous event!) to blush, and once alone:
Amaz'd, asham'd, thou stard'st, like waking Timon,
And I, too, stared aghast, and knew not Simon!
30
And, o'er the desert of thy countenance,
(That isleless sea, without or wave, or coast,)
Truth sought a gleam of sense, and wander'd lost.
But fate consol'd thee; for thy curs'd applause
Was deep damnation to the author's cause:
Tho' dipp'd in Heav'n, his song, unsold, unsought,
Was deem'd some faultless nothing good for nought;
And, had not Johnstone for pale merit carv'd,
Damn'd by thy praise, even Mickle might have starv'd.
Bless'd were the times, when vengeance fed on fire,
And Smithfield saw Religion's fools expire!
We ne'er, alas! such bright revenge may take,
And burn the bugbear, Genius, at the stake;
Or bid the heretic poets of the nation
Roar, in legitimate rhyme, their recantation!
But, should thy patron sage again be sent
To sit (his proper place) in Parliament,
Bid him, with all thy eloquence, propose
(Yet slyly, at the important session's close)
A law, which must, and shall be then decreed—
To flay whoever laughs at this our creed:
“Fudge, ever empty, and yet ever full,
“'Mid change unchang'd, inerrable, and dull,
“Fast bound to nonsense, cannot, will not budge,
“But makes Fate choice, and is, and shall be Fudge.
“Perfection is emasculated song;
“Fudge is perfection: right, whoe'er is wrong,
“We, crown'd with bells, the Fudge-presiding powers
“Are, and will be; and no Fudge equals ours.”
And Smithfield saw Religion's fools expire!
We ne'er, alas! such bright revenge may take,
And burn the bugbear, Genius, at the stake;
Or bid the heretic poets of the nation
Roar, in legitimate rhyme, their recantation!
But, should thy patron sage again be sent
To sit (his proper place) in Parliament,
Bid him, with all thy eloquence, propose
(Yet slyly, at the important session's close)
31
To flay whoever laughs at this our creed:
“Fudge, ever empty, and yet ever full,
“'Mid change unchang'd, inerrable, and dull,
“Fast bound to nonsense, cannot, will not budge,
“But makes Fate choice, and is, and shall be Fudge.
“Perfection is emasculated song;
“Fudge is perfection: right, whoe'er is wrong,
“We, crown'd with bells, the Fudge-presiding powers
“Are, and will be; and no Fudge equals ours.”
Vile is the work, and written by a fool,
That dares to deviate from our classic rule;
Tame, if not turgid; if blank verse, not rhyme;
Bombast and German horror, if sublime.
So (deeming Newton's merit a pretence)
Our cousin calls his nonsense common sense,
Converts the sun to ice, by wordy spell,
And makes cold Saturn hot as blazing hell;
Or (homager of lawless conquest) pays
The cant of freedom in a tyrant's praise,
Transforming, with his necromantic pen,
The prince of despots into th' first of men.
Oh, had the freeborn Briton in his heart
His ponderous Essays sent to Bonaparte,
(Dire ammunition!) when th' invading foes
Fir'd insolent squibs beneath th' imperial nose,
Blucher, appall'd, had fled from Gallic ground,
And Congreve's rockets been excell'd—in sound!
Greatest of sage fudgeosophers are we,
But Dickey is the greatest of us three.
To all who know thy powers, thy powers are known,
And every dunce might take them for his own;
We both write rhyme in which no discord jars;
But Dickey plays the devil with the stars!
All this thou know'st—But, ah, my light decays,
Emblem of man's frail trust, and winged days!—
Oh, what is stable in this world of change?
Insects of care! bards, kings—even critics, range
From flower to weed, and sport their little hour,
As sports the moth, air's gem, on flying flower
O'er hyacinthine odours, passion-borne,
On wings of splendour, rivalling the morn!
To-morrow kills the deathless of to-day!
What will th' inerrable in crambo say,
When Pope neglected, like dead Pug, or Pero,
The Dunciad's author, lives but in its hero?
How will they redden, and almost with shame,
To hear the voice of time and truth proclaim
One scene in Cibber, Manuel's weeping laughter,
Worth Pope, Pope's mimics, and their apes hereafter?
Lays, that with our immortal lays might vie,
Die in a day, a brief eternity;
Die, tho' the Monthly praise with all his breath;
Die—for our praise is everlasting death!
Vainly in ought vain mortals put their trust;
Ev'n folly's granite turns, at last, to dust;
States rise to fall; the very angels fell;
And Priestley says the fire's extinct in hell!
Thou, Simon, art the sole infallible.
And should'st thou tire, best scholar in thy school,
Of blowing the “posterior trump” by rule;
Or praise a wit; or fail to praise a fool;
Or write blank verse; or, ere thou damn it, read;
Or wisely blame; or, blam'd with candour, heed;
Or quote, and understand; or cease to scribble
The only genuine unintelligible;
Or be no more half learned, tho' an ass;
Phillips himself may blush at his own brass!—
Almost in darkness?—I must cease to write,
And wish thee (not perchance a last) good night!
Remaining still (what fisher ever caught less?)
Fame's angler thin, thy brother,
That dares to deviate from our classic rule;
Tame, if not turgid; if blank verse, not rhyme;
Bombast and German horror, if sublime.
So (deeming Newton's merit a pretence)
Our cousin calls his nonsense common sense,
Converts the sun to ice, by wordy spell,
And makes cold Saturn hot as blazing hell;
Or (homager of lawless conquest) pays
The cant of freedom in a tyrant's praise,
32
The prince of despots into th' first of men.
Oh, had the freeborn Briton in his heart
His ponderous Essays sent to Bonaparte,
(Dire ammunition!) when th' invading foes
Fir'd insolent squibs beneath th' imperial nose,
Blucher, appall'd, had fled from Gallic ground,
And Congreve's rockets been excell'd—in sound!
Greatest of sage fudgeosophers are we,
But Dickey is the greatest of us three.
To all who know thy powers, thy powers are known,
And every dunce might take them for his own;
We both write rhyme in which no discord jars;
But Dickey plays the devil with the stars!
All this thou know'st—But, ah, my light decays,
Emblem of man's frail trust, and winged days!—
Oh, what is stable in this world of change?
Insects of care! bards, kings—even critics, range
From flower to weed, and sport their little hour,
As sports the moth, air's gem, on flying flower
O'er hyacinthine odours, passion-borne,
On wings of splendour, rivalling the morn!
33
What will th' inerrable in crambo say,
When Pope neglected, like dead Pug, or Pero,
The Dunciad's author, lives but in its hero?
How will they redden, and almost with shame,
To hear the voice of time and truth proclaim
One scene in Cibber, Manuel's weeping laughter,
Worth Pope, Pope's mimics, and their apes hereafter?
Lays, that with our immortal lays might vie,
Die in a day, a brief eternity;
Die, tho' the Monthly praise with all his breath;
Die—for our praise is everlasting death!
Vainly in ought vain mortals put their trust;
Ev'n folly's granite turns, at last, to dust;
States rise to fall; the very angels fell;
And Priestley says the fire's extinct in hell!
Thou, Simon, art the sole infallible.
And should'st thou tire, best scholar in thy school,
Of blowing the “posterior trump” by rule;
Or praise a wit; or fail to praise a fool;
Or write blank verse; or, ere thou damn it, read;
Or wisely blame; or, blam'd with candour, heed;
34
The only genuine unintelligible;
Or be no more half learned, tho' an ass;
Phillips himself may blush at his own brass!—
Almost in darkness?—I must cease to write,
And wish thee (not perchance a last) good night!
Remaining still (what fisher ever caught less?)
Fame's angler thin, thy brother,
Peter Faultless.
POSTSCRIPT.
None but a loveless critic, old and dry,Would blame this young word, passion-borne; for I
By it allude to sweet Miss Butterfly,
The film-capp'd damsel, with the sun-beam shawl,
Master Moth's sweetheart.—Bless me, how I scrawl!
When half asleep, one scarce can write at all.
Line running into line—see, Simon, see!
“Out of all plumb!” and triplets—can it be?
Three hideous triplets in a row? Lord—three!
41
TALES OF NIGHT,
IN RHYME.
------Oh! mysterious Night,
Thou art not silent! many tongues hast thou.
Miss Baillie.
Thou art not silent! many tongues hast thou.
Miss Baillie.
79
MATRIMONIAL MAGIC.
INTRODUCTION.
I.
Oh, Lady of the sable vest,Thy sad hands clasp'd upon thy breast!
When heaven is hung with mourning, thou
Turn'st from th' extinguish'd stars thy brow,
To curse and interdict the light,
And hallow darkness! thou art Night.
When shipwreck howls along the deep,
Thou sittest on the wave-worn steep,
To see destruction's giant hand
With more than horror strew the strand!
I call'd not thee, thou face of tears,
All channell'd by the share of years!
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To turn his dream of hope to madness;
The throne of trouble is his heart.
What need hath he of fear and thee?
Lady of Gloom! depart, depart!
II.
When she, the hope of nations, died,Whose story is a realm in woe,
Was it not thou, whose wing supplied
A fitting pall for such a bier?
Following the dead, with footstep slow,
England beheld thy gloomy tear.
While, from thy wan and trembling hand,
Death's torch flash'd o'er a blasted land
The mockery of the blessed day.
Lady of Death! away, away!
Oh!—Lady of Despair!—away!
III.
Hath Night no smiles? or none for me?I love not gloom, but jollity.
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The dreadful drop by murder spilt,
The seowl of the renounc'd of heaven,
The self-condemn'd, the unforgiven;
That task be his, of soul severe,
The poet of the burning tear,
Who sung Medora, love, and woe;
To gloomy spirit, darkness, go!
Yet come, (but smiling,) Night, to me;
Or, bring the urchin, Fun, with thee.
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Oh, Tam, had'st thou but been sae wise
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice.
Burns.
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice.
Burns.
[I.]
'Twas midnight wild! and, heavy, pass'dO'er John White's cot the frequent blast.
The clouds, beneath Night's awful noon,
Pursued the oft-extinguish'd moon,
Like troubled waves, that, maned with foam
Bound o'er the sailor's wandering home.
Long had John's window wanted mending;
And the blast blew his candle out,
The sparks o'er bed and corn-bin sending.
Cold by the fire, he wip'd his snout,
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And toothache gave him many a tort gripe;
While, like the very Hag of spite,
Nell, his old wife, sat opposite;
And, o'er the sink, of nought afraid,
Washing her smock, bent Moll, the maid;
And Tom, the plowman, on the floor
Snor'd, though he was not heard to snore.
Full thirty years had John taught Nelly;
Yet, still unlearn'd, though long at school,
Brains had she never—in her belly;
What could he hope from such a fool?
They snagg'd, the learn'd aver, and truly,
From August scorch'd, till blazing July;
For, while Nell bore not children any,
Her husband father'd bastards many;
And said it was, by every liar,
That oft the wife of Farmer Bacon
Had Nell's Lord for her own mistaken,
And that fat Giles, with face of fire,
Had sons who might call John their Sire.
84
And, were she riding to the devil,
Yet would she, in her headlong course,
Whip him who did not whip the horse.
John ne'er was, by his neighbours, deem'd
The best good-natured man on earth;
But sulkier now than ever seem'd
The stern old sinner! while to mirth
And sudden fun inclin'd was Nell;
But why, old Johnny could net tell.
No longer now the type express,
And visible sign of loneliness,
She laugh'd, talk'd, kick'd the kettle o'er,
And laid John, sprawling, on the floor;
When had she such a fit before?
The ruddy embers, almost spent,
Seem'd to partake her merriment,
And wink o'erpower'd, then blaze amain.
But all her pranks were play'd in vain;
For still more darkly frown'd old John.
Vainly she laugh'd, like woman mad,
And lifted up her dear old lad,
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And chuck'd his chin, and chuck'd again.
Still sat he shy, with awful eye
Like statue of austerity,
Or banker's clerk behind his book,
Or monthly critic in his nook,
Hunting for flaws, but lacking game,
And sick at thought of rising name.
And cause, as after will be seen,
There was, for both their moods, I ween.
At last, incens'd, and weary, too,
With wrinkled hand, of greyish blue,
Into the fire her cap she threw;
And, from her crown, her tresses flew,
And down her back, like pale snakes, hung,
And o'er her breast, and o'er her beard;
While, grim as witch the fiends among,
And, dancing like a squib, she sung,
With more than melody, a song
Which all true lovers should have heard.
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II.
“How quiet, in the church-yard wide,Lie John and Nelly side by side!
Their wedded war is o'er;
Silent the curtain lecture sweet,
The Iliad in a nuptial sheet;
Hating, they died; and hop'd to meet,
In heaven, or hell, no more.”
III.
Moll laugh'd, almost until she split,And overthrew both suds and kit;
But still more grimly frown'd grey John:
The old clock, which he gaz'd upon,
Tick'd slower, some say, with affright;
A proof that spectres walk'd that night.
He took his hat from where it hung;
But Nell more loud and wildly sung,
And seiz'd him, as in spite;
“Stay thou with me, love, I pray thee,
For terrors haunt the night.”
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Around her love her arms she twin'd,
And gave him such a potent kiss,
As set the cottage-door ajar;
So loud it spake of wedded bliss.
Moll stood astonish'd!—well she might,—
Because it was a thing not common:
“Hem!” growl'd old John, “Is't devil i' th' woman?”
And rais'd his hand, and push'd her far.
Then—while the clock struck one, and shook,—
Gruff, into th' night his way he took,
And Nell bang'd after him the door;
And up rose Thomas from the floor,
Staring, as if he fear'd the fall
Of roof and rig-tree over all.
IV.
By the wild moon's disastrous light,Whither, oh, Night, in such a night,
Albeit unus'd to palpitations,
Went the grey sire of generations?
He went (and haply for no good)
Strait to the hut, beyond the wood,
88
Martha, the doctress, and the witch,
Whose physic (there was magic in it)
Could make folks sleep an hour a minute.
Strange things, indeed, could Mat perform!
'Tis certain she could lay a storm,
And bottle th' lightning; and—a wonder!—
She kept in pots her pounded thunder;
And, when hot summers bak'd all dry,
She pickled th' sunshine, to lay by
For future use, in wintry day.
But could poor Mat have witch'd away
Those ills that caus'd her still to sigh,
Disease, and age, and poverty;
Or, had she been young, fair, or rich,
She would not have been deem'd a Witch.
Her form, that once, perhaps, was strait,
Was crooked now, as bend of skate,
And, symptom sure of sorcery,
She had a wart beneath her eye.
Not of the Graces lov'd was she;
But Fun she lov'd, and her lov'd he,
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But she was wearing to her end;
And, though none better lov'd a joke,
One secret woe, would oft provoke
The deep, unbidden sigh, that spoke
More than words could, but spoke in vain,
And lighten'd not her load of pain.
Her sons had left their house of birth,
That house, no more the home of mirth;
All scatter'd were they over earth;
Well might she death to life prefer!
Alas, they fail'd to visit her!
Years pass'd, and still they came not near;
This cost her many a bitter tear.
The four green acres, low and warm,
(Now join'd to fat Giles Bacon's farm,)
That fed their cow, ere William died,—
She wish'd to keep them! 'twas denied;
And the dark workhouse, frowning nigh,
Was her sole earthly treasury.
Oh! to desertion, want, and age,
What ill could fate add, in his rage?
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Not the dread fire of soul unbless'd;
But in that bosom, torture-sore,
A cancer, cureless ill, she bore!
Death star'd her ever in the face;
And woe watch'd in her dwelling place;
Yet was she cheerful, though in pain;
For in the cup which she must drain,
A gem of heavenly lustre shone.
And, frequent, on her pillow lone,
She shed the tear of memory,—
No curse to her! with streaming eye,
Then thought she of her husband's grave,
Crown'd with the turf of twenty years,
Where latest verdure still shall wave,
And spring the earliest daisy rears.
The dead, whom vainly we deplore,
Not lost, she deem'd, but gone before;
And her tried soul, its haven nigh,
Was anchor'd on eternity.
Heaven, pitying, stoop'd, to make her sorrows less,
Man scowl'd to see her burdensome distress,
And the dogs knew her by her wretchedness.
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V.
Night's angels (who, perchance, know wellMore queer things than they choose to tell)
Have not inform'd us what befell
John, on the road from home and hell,
To meet the wrinkled sorceress;
Whether the air-borne coffin met
The hoary sinner on his way;
Whether the whisper accentless
Of wretch self slain, his path beset,
While dumb hand beckon'd him to stay;
Whether he stood aghast to see,
Beneath the yew's etersial gloom,
Gleaming in rawness horribly,
The flay'd horse, rampant on a tomb;
Or whether, where the four roads meet,
And the three oaks their moss'd boughs stretch,
He heard the sound of lifeless feet,
Or sigh of ne'er-seen gabelwretch.
But 'tis most certain, that the spark
Which redly rose, and rose to die,
From Martha's chimney in the dark,
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Or thought of his mortality.
No!—Queerer thoughts on John, instead,
Grinn'd, like an old wife's maidenhead,
And, laughing through his frost, were seen
The wrinkles of a leaf of green.
VI.
He reach'd the hut, and knock'd with strength;Long knock'd he vainly! but, at length,
The door was open'd, and he enter'd,
Wondering no little how he ventur'd.
Yet scarce within the open door,
He stood, the viewless witch before;
For darkness darken'd, in the light
That glimmer'd from the eyes of sprite
Who with her dwelt, in shape a cat;
And Johnny quak'd with dread thereat!
But when he heard the demon pur,—
His very guts began to stir!
And that sound only could he hear,
Save creaking fire, all rayless, near.
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Struck something that return'd no sound;
Dead to the touch, and black it lay.
Yet, causeless, learn'd historians say,
At that dire moment, were his fears,
And that 'twas but a bag of soot
'Gainst which so dreadly struck his foot.
Her son, the sweep, to do her honour,
Had call'd that afternoon upon her,
For the first time in ten long years:
He spake not,—though he saw her tears,—
But left his bag, and went away,
Because he did not come to stay.
And yet, oh! widow, yet to thee,
That visit stern was ecstasy!
The mother, bow'd with time and pain,
Hath seen her child, her child, again!
Oh! sweetest in thy bitter cup,
That sweet drop, mother, drink it up!
Sweet, and the last that thou shalt have,
Perchance, on this side of the grave!—
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Where age and want the wretch invade,
Nature, thy bless'd affections burn!
Bless'd, she awaited his return:
“He'll come back for his bag!” she said;
Nor could the wealth of worlds have bought
Th' Elysium of that simple thought;
But so deep in the reverie
Of its enjoyment lapp'd was she,
That John, unheard, and bent on sin,
Knock'd long, before she let him in.
VII.
“Mat!” said grey John, and listen'd, “Mat!Well know you what I would be at:
True to appointment, here stand I.
May the lie choak me, if I lie!
But Nell, as bottled beer, is mad.
Curs'd with a shrew, a woful man,
Now rid me, as you say you can,
Of her, and married misery;
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If she were dead, I should be glad;
And would I in her coffin had her!
Not that I love my servant Molly,
As bawls Giles Bacon, in his folly;
For that would be both sin and shame,
In one so old as I am, dame.
Beside, I fear she likes my man,
Who ne'er gets drunk, but when he can:
Sot! he should th' whipping post be tied to,
If all lov'd whoremasters as I do!”
VIII.
Mute, sigh'd the witch: he heard the sigh,But did not heed it! nor could he
Discern the pity, mix'd with scorn,
That glimmer'd in her faded eye,
Behind her locks so white and worn.
Even in resentment, kind was she:
Unlike some saints of this sad world
Whose life of serpents, envy curl'd,
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Saints than whom nought in hell can be
Less like the angels of the other!
Honey with gall she lov'd to deal,
And never wounded, but to heal.
IX.
“It will be all the same to me,Whether my wife,” continued he,
“Be carried, living, into hell,
Or, by enchantment, die in bed.”
X.
Still was the sorceress silent. “NellMust, when her time comes, die,” he said,
“Nor care I, if she die before,—
Provided we from guilt be free,
That is, provided none blame me.
Aye, let the blame at Satan's door,
Or any door, but mine, be laid,
And even do with her what thou wilt;
For then we shall be free from guilt.”
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XI.
“Certainly,” said the witch, at last,“The blame will, as we wish, be cast
Ev'n on themselves, the evil powers,
'Twill seem the Devil's deed, and not our's.
But that contrive we can to steer
Guiltless, as blameless, is not clear.”
XII.
“For guilt no matter!” answer'd he,“Provided slander silent be,
Conscience shall sit as still as she.”
XIII.
“Yet pause,” said Mat, “or ere thou doThis thing of fear. Canst thou go through
The dreadful business, without shrinking?
Think.”—“Phoo!” cried he, “what matters thinking?
I will go through it, come what may;—
Not that I love my servant Molly,
As guts, lies, horns, and melancholy
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For Giles, whom no ties satisfy,
Is not content, we all know well,
To talk of sweet sounds as they fly,
But hoards, for after claps, the smell;
A huge paunch, set on props a-straddle,
That, ever cramming, never glutted,
Hath fed (all swear't who see his waddle)
On roast ducks till he's grown web-footed!”
XIV.
“Lo!” mutter'd she, “I write thy nameIn Satan's blood!” Then, still more low,
In accents half suppress'd, and slow,
She spake the curse: “May fiends of flame
Pursue, and scourge thee to the tomb,
A hope-left, God-abandon'd man!
And may the hell-rung frying-pan
Jar in thine ears till th' crack of doom!
If thou per form not what I bid,
When fate hath clos'd this volume's lid!
99
And not thine inmost soul reveal'd.”
XV.
Then, with the magic grasp of hands,The witch impos'd her dread commands,
In whispers, such as sinners needed,
And us'd with caution, in th' beginning,
Ere prayers and cant had superseded
The use of clumsier tools in sinning;
And, passion-rul'd, and evil-sent,
And hag-instructed, forth he went.
Whither? To Bacon's barn, that stood
Where roars the river through the wood,
Then battling with the blast on high,
And o'er rocks waving gloomily,
What time, in dreams of dying men,
The winged dragon, from his den,
Was seen, o'er Huthwaite's firs reclin'd,
To lash, with tail of woe, the wind.
He, entering, trode the spacious floor,
But did not dare to shut the door;
100
Illum'd, by fits, his locks of white,
Thus he address'd, on bended knee,
The powers that are, and still will be,
Till man shall triumph o'er the grave,
And fate no more be passion's slave.
XVI.
“Ye, who prescribe the doom of man!Ye, to whom life is dancing dust!
Ye, who must aid me, if you can!
(Dread slaves!) ye shall! because ye must.—
Let my wife die! no matter how;
But be it soon! and why not now?
And, if to wed again I choose,
Let not the baggage, Moll, refuse!
For well ye know,—or I'd not tell ye,—
I love her, as I ne'er lov'd Nelly,
And Giles says, all my actions show it:
I tell ye th' truth, because ye know it.
Now—by her chaste lip's rosy red!
And by her stainless maidenhead!
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And by the gown upon her back,
Made of six yards of tawny cotton,
Which I bought cheap, because 'twas rotten,
And to her gave, (all good betide her!)
Unknown to Nell, who can't abide her!
By these, and by her soul and liver,
Let her, I charge ye, love the giver
Of gown and garters, and forever
John White to all the world prefer,
With passion hot, as his for her!
Last—make me, spite of time and pain,
(If ye can do it,) young again!”
XVII.
Lo! as if dead in heaven, the moonVanish'd from night's portentous noon!
And two fleet forms, perchance, of air,
(John saw not whether foul or fair,)
Enter'd the barn inaudibly;
And, quick, as glance of trout in stream,
Sudden, as comes, uncall'd, a dream,
102
Might soothly swear, but might not see,
That things of earth they could not be.
And now, immers'd in utter darkness,
Even his inward light was sparkless;
For, as he felt, or smelt, or heard
Their passing tread, his ancient beard
Cring'd, and his hair threw off his hat;
And, as in river plunges rat,
Down, heavy, dropp'd the hat to th' ground,
Which inly groan'd, a deathly sound,
Like fall of clay on coffin lid.
Johnny, 'tis written, never did,
When of that twain he chose to tell,
Say what the craft they made a trade of,
Nor what the stuff he thought them made of,—
Whether o' th' dunnest smoke of hell,
Or moonshine, when invisible,
Or sound, or fragrance: who shall tell?
But, howsoe'er it came to pass,
An odour certainly there was,
103
It savour'd of mortality.
But Johnny neither would nor could,
Suppose they might be flesh and blood;
And, if omniscient, too, they were,
They must have known that he was there!
Yet learn'd historians have averr'd,
And bards have sung, and I have heard,
Whate'er might then their business be,
They did not wish for company.
Bodiless did the phantoms glide?
And yet an elbow struck his side!
But hoary John was too polite
To ask, at such a time of night,
How elbow of unreal sprite
Did e'er, or could, since time began,
Give pain to rib of living man;
But, listening, as was wise and meet,
He heard what seem'd the tread of feet,
Like distant step on midnight street;
And something heavy seem'd to fall,
If not on th' floor, against the wall.
104
Ceas'd the old walls to reel and shake?
The rafters, overhead, to quake?
The earth to shudder? Did the blast
Pause, and at once, on clouds above?
And slept the aspin in the grove?
Did he—a power, but not a form,—
Who more than whirlwind's strength can bind;
Did he, the Genius of the storm,
Stoop, listening, as he rein'd the wind?
Did midnight, did the stars, the skies,
With damned witchcraft sympathise?
XVIII.
Poor human nature! could'st thou see,In their own forms, distinct and bare,
Stripped of their fancied foul and fair,
The things that bless, or bother, thee;
Then—Earth, indeed, would desert be!
XIX.
The tyrant is sometimes a slave;So brave men are not always brave:
105
So courage may succeed to terror.
Vanish'd, at length, poor Johnny's fears,
And he began to prick his ears.
'Twas silence all! save, soft and low,
A sound, as of the melting snow;
Or, distant music's faintest flow;
Or, sigh of sorrow in repose;
Or, dewdrop, sliding from the rose,
When, sweet, the breath of midnight blows;
Or, murmur of the moonlight grass,
When fairies o'er the daisy pass;
Or, tremble of the conscious grove
That hides the stolen kiss of love
Even from the prying stars above,
When passion pants on beauty's cheek,
And blushes what it cannot speak.
John wish'd for light, to use his eyes!
What was that voice of whisper'd bliss?
Was't the old compound, lovers' sighs,
Mix'd with the oft-imprinted kiss;
106
Invented by our mother Eve,
Who granted—so 'tis said of Madam—
A patent for't to the devil, and Adam?
Lo! light burst, sudden, from on high!
John ask'd no questions, how, or why,
But all was light, as brightest day!
And, plain, before him, on the hay,
The two mysterious phantoms lay,
Less like two spectres, side by side,
Than bridegroom and enamour'd bride.
Male seem'd the one; John could have ta'en him
For his own plowman, Tommy Blainim,
So like he seem'd in form and size:
But t'other caus'd him most surprise!
Female it seem'd, with bosom bare;
And, o'er the heaven of whiteness there,
Seem'd wandering locks of Night's dark hair!
But may he call his eyes his own?
Or, did he buy that tawny gown?
And does he see, or seem to see,
Bound on that loveliest spectre-knee,
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He star'd with eyes mile-wide, or more:
Darkness and devils, what a sight!
And soon his grunt became a roar!
“Forgery! Tipstaves! Help! Thou boar!
“Oh, Lord, ha' mercy! Moll, Tom! Whore!”
XX.
Shrieking, up sprang that seeming female;Laughing, with her upstarted the male;
A laugh it was, uncouth and dread,
That shook the stumps in Johnny's head.
Still, as he laugh'd, the spectre rais'd
His eye accurs'd, and upward gaz'd.
And upward, too, look'd haggard John:—
Oh, Night! what horror stares he on?
What vision binds him, or what charm?
And something trickles, wet and warm,
As tear of brine from mourner's eyes,
Down both his lean and wither'd thighs,
Which when that laughing devil sees
Hot-issuing at the breeches knees,
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Until the wooden shoes are fill'd,
He claps his hellish hands for gladness,
And howls, like folly drunk, or madness.
XXI.
As lady fine, rais'd from her graveBy some abhorr'd enchanter-knave,
(And still, as erst, precise and proud,)
Shudders, and, from her faded shroud,
The wriggling worms, so foul to sense,
Shakes,—wondering at their impudence;
So wonder'd Johnny!—well he might,—
To see the sibyl of affright
Who, seated on the highest beam,
Cast from her eyes a sulphur-gleam,
Which he beholding, lowly cring'd,
For't seem'd a blaze that might have sing'd
His very soul, if he had had one,
So grimly glar'd that very bad one.
Her awful right hand grasp'd a candle;
And in the other, like pump handle,
109
The twisted cord of fate, a halter;
While, streaming from her capless scull,
Her gorgon tresses, white as wool,
Veil'd features that might startle hell.
John thought he saw his old wife Nell!
And, diuretic as he trembled,
Muttering what could not be dissembled,
(Like night-mare in a widow's bed,
Who sees, return'd, her husband, dead,)
“Take any shape but that!” he said;
While to the balk, with hideous leer,
The hag bound fast her cord of fear,
Which done, these accents met his ear:
“Did'st thou not come to get unmarried?
Then, John, thy plot hath not miscarried.
Place in this noose thy neck abhorr'd;
And, if I stir, to cut the cord,
Still shall Old Nick thy true friend be,
And hang grey Nell, instead of thee.”
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XXII.
Alas! what horrors face must heWho deals with damned sorcery!
The door, at that dread instant, flew
Wide open, and rush'd in a crew
Of demons dire, that well could ape
The human voice, the human shape,
'Mid whom, on stang high mounted, sate
Martha, the grisly hag of fate.
What torches of Plutonian tar
Cast red their radiance near and far!
In hands of seeming boy and man
Was many a seeming frying-pan;
And female voices rang in air,
And many a seeming cap was there,
And many a bosom laughter heav'd;
And hundreds grinn'd, while one was griev'd.
John thought his neighbours, for their evils,
Fed all on brimstone, and were devils!
XXIII.
“Come down, in all thy charms, come down!John shall not die!” yell'd Mat the brown;
111
Thou shalt, with halter, soundly bang
His back and sides, and ancient breech,
Until his distant home he reach.”
Thereat, what seem'd her sooty son
Began John's torments new, for fun:
Sly, he approach'd, in raven guise,
And, into John's despairing eyes,
A handful threw of dusky grain!
Then black tears flow'd, like sable rain;
And Johnny fled, but slowly flew,
Him hemm'd so close the goblin crew.
Still, as he strove his flight to urge,
That wife-like spectre plied the scourge,
And chang'd, with halter's sounding thwack,
From white to black and blue, his back;
While laughter, and demoniac noises
Made such pother in the night,
That certain asses, wak'd in fright,
Half-envious, wish'd to change their voices.
Small leisure then had John to wonder
At what seem'd Farmer Bacon's thunder;
112
To any witch, worth any sum,
To raise the devil with, in a storm.
But lowly bow'd his bleeding form;
Fainting, he stoop'd, amid the throng,
Yet 'scap'd not so the cruel thong.
At length, from scalp to buttock sore,
Eager, he reach'd his cottage door,
Where entering, pale,—how stunn'd was he,
Asleep by th' fire, old Nell to see!
Up she arose, and sad was she,
And cause she had to grieve!
He scratch'd his head, he touch'd his belly,
Nor could, nor would believe,
If he was John, that she was Nelly!
Until, at last, his pains to ease,
She stripp'd him bare from head to knee,
And rubb'd his back with candle-grease,
And fondly pass'd her faithful thumb
From scragg of neck to ridge of bum.
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SECOND NUPTIALS.
ADVERTISEMENT.
In this book it is related, how William Bray deserted his wife; how Mathew Hall won her heart, by talking of her husband until she wept; how she swam a drake with her tears, and married Mathew; how William Bray returned to his wife, after an absence of ten years; how she took him for the Devil, and did her best to scratch his eyes out! and how the man had his mare again, and all was well.
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INTRODUCTION.
I.
Oh! thou, who tak'st thy smiling seatClose by the fire, where rustics meet,
When toil is done, to feed on ale,
And join the laugh, or tell the tale,
While haste the hours, by pleasure speeded,
And darkness frowns without, unheeded!
When, next, oh! night, the genial powers,
Satiate with drink, not crown'd with flowers,
Assemble at a tinker's wedding;
May I be there, to see the bedding!
And when thou wakest at country fair,
To mark the feats of baited bear;
Or pugilistic battle's rage;
Or showman's feats, on lofty stage,
Around which, like th' Athenians old,
Crowd Albion's toil-strung peasants bold,
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Lady of Laughter! wake me, too.
II.
Oh! thou, who, in th' eccentric mazeOf motion, wedded to sweet sound,
Lov'st powerful beauty's roseate blaze,
The march of music, and the bound
Of youthful health, an angel tall,
Th' enchantress of the splendid hall!
When, next, oh! nymph, the Graces meet,
To frolic on harmonious feet,
And, through the heaven of smiles, serene,
The stately dance moves, like a queen;
Then, to that loveliest scene of night,
Where Emma beams in looks of light,
With eye of life, and step of air,
Lady of Grace! with me repair.
III.
Art thou not she, assigned to leadThe lover o'er the moonlight mead,
With her, his life of life decreed,
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Save the far-moaning waterfall,
Save their own beating hearts, is still;
While every leaf with dew is gemm'd,
And passion is their heaven, their all,
And wealth and worlds roll by, contemn'd?
Then, when, unseen, they fly to thee;
When nought, but conscious night, is near;
What see'st thou then? what none may see:
What hear'st thou then? what none may hear.
Saint of the heart! to thee, to thee
Shall bow the might of poesy.
Oh! Lady of the starry stole,
Rich in the secrets of the soul!
To thee shall rise th' impassion'd song,
Devoutly sweet, divinely strong;
And ne'er shall bard inspired refuse
To crown thee mistress of the muse,
To wear thy bonds, to scorn the free,
Lady of Love! and kneel to thee.
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And, sudden, rush'd into the hall
A man, whose aspect and attire
Startled the circle by the fire.
Scott.
A man, whose aspect and attire
Startled the circle by the fire.
Scott.
I.
Long since, to th' wood return'd the crow;Don, bounding o'er his bank, is loud;
And thick above the melting snow,
Night's blackness hides the pouring cloud.
No azure islands heaven, no star
O'er Thrybergh's grey oaks peeps afar,
Piercing the deluge of the sky,
Through which the blast wades drearily.
But on the hill, a blaze with light,
Deserted Mary's cottage gleams,
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Wave fast their bare arms in the beams.
Is this the widow's wedding night?
'Tis now ten years since William went,
The slave of jealous discontent,
To fight the Yankees, in despite,
Rather than stay at home and fight;
And now six months are passed, or more,
Since Mathew Hall arriv'd, and told
That William's limbs lie stiff and cold,
On wintry Champlain's forest shore.
And does the widow wed again?
Oh! widowhood is weary pain,
Of ills the worst that can befall!
And, loving him, as he loves her,
Say, does she wed the messenger
Of late good tidings, Mathew Hall?
II.
The scar'd fox in the coppice hoar,Hears the dance shake the oaken floor;
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And Mary is again a bride.
As wave on Canklow's forehead fair
Th' autumnal maple's locks of gold,
In many a curl, her flaxen hair,
Above the flowing tear, is roll'd.
Sad? and a bride! A mourning bride,
She sits her new-espous'd beside,
And her tears bathe his hand the while!
What may such ill-tim'd tears betide?
Or, is she far too bless'd to smile?
III.
The fiddle's shriek was superseded:The tale, the joke, the laugh succeeded,
And scandal stoop'd at folly's ear.
Soft-touching, with his finger's end,
Her, who, erewhile, was Mary Bray,
Said Mathew then unto his dear:
“How strange that my expected friend
Came not to give the bride away!
What stays his coming? cans't thou say?”
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IV.
“The flood,” she answer'd, “is abroad,And peril haunts the buried road.
The ferryman hath left his boat,
Which hath not, this day, earn'd a groat,
And now in Mexbro, with his wench,
Tipsy, he sits on the alehouse bench.”
V.
“Yet,” then said he, with look of fear,“I would, I would, my friend were here!
For much indeed—now mark thou me!—
Imports his coming, love, to thee:
He is a man of mystery!
And come he will, or soon, or late,
To question thee with words of fate.
Tell him no lies, my loving mate!
For, on thy answers truth depend
The weal of husband, wife, and friend.”
VI.
“Thou shalt be well obey'd,” replied,While faster stream'd her tears, the bride.
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“A wedding? or a funeral?
Weeping! and on thy wedding day?
Weeping! and still for William Bray?
By heaven thou hast shed tears for him
Enough old Martha's drake to swim!
Of this no more, no more, I pray!—
Ho! where is now the blasant Muse?
Is she to scare the pigs afraid?
A song! a song! nor man, nor maid,
Who hopes to wed, to sing refuse.
But pensive Harry shall sing first,
The cross'd in love, the sorrow-nurs'd.
Harry, thou ne'er did'st rightly pray
Till sulky Sarah jilted thee.
Religion, ancient sages say,
Religion, from the realms above,
Came down, to soothe the mourner, love;
And passion then was piety.
Indulge me, Harry, in my whim—
(Solemn th' occasion!) sing a hymn;
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Ev'n call it what thou wilt—but sing!”
VII.
Pensive and pale, arose the youth,The child of feeling and of truth,
And modestly, and yet with pride,
His ancient fiddle laid aside,
Which not its weight in gold could buy.
True, it was clumsy to the eye;
True, its dark side some cracks display'd;
Yet was there more than music in't;
For why? 'twas by his grand-sire made,
The Genius, fam'd so far and wide,
Th' inventor of the butter-print!
The worm of death was in his breast.
Sarah, the faithless, met his eye,
Which grief and mute reproach express'd;
Then, gazing, self-condemn'd, on earth,
She heav'd, or seem'd to heave, a sigh;
But, lo, she saw the hairy hide
Of big-boned Jacob at her side,
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The infant, frail repentance, died.
At first, the Minstrel's voice was low,
As whisper'd prayer of fear, or woe;
But soon, distinct, and deep, and clear,
The soul-felt accents met the ear,
Full of that fervour of the heart
Which bids all earthly toys depart,
Taught by calamity to scorn
All that of human pride is born.
VIII. THE LOVER'S SONG.
“Scarcely from Mary's cheek, where bliss
In tears and blushes lay,
Had William kiss'd, with transport's kiss,
Love's blissful tear away,
When, o'er her murdered sister's bier,
He saw her shed a wilder tear.
In tears and blushes lay,
Had William kiss'd, with transport's kiss,
Love's blissful tear away,
When, o'er her murdered sister's bier,
He saw her shed a wilder tear.
“Fast, fast, into the new-made grave,
Fast fell the melting snow;
But scarce had Winter ceas'd to rave
O'er her who slept below,
When Mary mourn'd her William fled!
And then she mourn'd her William dead!
Fast fell the melting snow;
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O'er her who slept below,
When Mary mourn'd her William fled!
And then she mourn'd her William dead!
“Ah, life is but a tearful stream,
On which floats joy, the flower!
Deeply we plunge, and rise, and scream,
And strive, with all our power,
To grasp the bright weed gliding nigh,
And snatch, and miss, and sink, and die.
On which floats joy, the flower!
Deeply we plunge, and rise, and scream,
And strive, with all our power,
To grasp the bright weed gliding nigh,
And snatch, and miss, and sink, and die.
“The young bride wept; the sister wept
Where Ann serenely sleeps;
The widow wept, when William slept;
The wedded widow weeps!
Ah, earth's frail love is woe, is woe!
Did not thy sister find it so?
Where Ann serenely sleeps;
The widow wept, when William slept;
The wedded widow weeps!
Ah, earth's frail love is woe, is woe!
Did not thy sister find it so?
“And not to soothe wild passion came
Religion from above:
Speak not, in scorn, her holy name;
Religion's self is love—
Love, with no poison in her kiss;
And, if she weeps, her tear is bliss.
Religion from above:
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Religion's self is love—
Love, with no poison in her kiss;
And, if she weeps, her tear is bliss.
“Be still my heart! soon shalt thou be—
Beneath thy mother's mould;
There is a bed of rest for thee,
Where Ann reposes cold:
The turf sleeps sweetly on her breast;
And thou (but not like it) shalt rest.”
Beneath thy mother's mould;
There is a bed of rest for thee,
Where Ann reposes cold:
The turf sleeps sweetly on her breast;
And thou (but not like it) shalt rest.”
IX.
Ended his ditty sadly sweet;Resum'd his fiddle and his seat;
Applauded by the noiseless tear,
Although no plaudit met his ear;
Sigh'd he, the meekest child of woe.
His cheek, late pallid as the snow,
Now burn'd with feeling's hectic glow,
(Consumption's banner there display'd,)
Beautiful, as a dying maid;
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Or, like the rose, the splendour less,
Oh, not the white one, but the pale,
That droops, the mourner of the vale,
Carnation'd faintly, in the gale!
X.
“My drooping Mary!” Mathew said,“I like this lay of Harry's well;
Though not by practis'd poet made,
(He's not, like Charles, there, one of th' trade,)
'Tis sad, and true. But can'st thou tell
What of the murderer, John, became?
Well may'st thou tremble at his name.
Mary, I slew the accursed man,
The wretch, who killed thy sister Ann.
We met—'twas in the ranks of death,—
With set teeth, and suspended breath:
On me the conscious traitor scowl'd;
On him my startled eye was rowl'd;
He rush'd to slay, but paus'd aghast;
Through him my cranshing bayonet pass'd;
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He lay, and look'd a hopeless prayer.
I, shuddering, turn'd—I could not bear
To look upon the horror there.”
XI.
Then, deeply skill'd in Ford and Quarles,Up rose the village Homer, Charles,
A wight uncouth, unshav'd, unclean,
In stature tall, of visage mean,
To sing, or say, and sans persuasion,
His poem, written for th' occasion.
Contempt rode in his half shut eye,
And, on his curl'd lip, vanity;
While, from the depth of lungs up drawn,
Preluding to his song, a yawn,
From mouth to mouth, with solemn boom,
Went in procession round the room.
XII. THE POET'S SONG.
“Methought, I wander'd long and far, and slept
On purple heath flowers, while the black stream crept
Moaning, beside me, o'er its bed of stone:
But soon before my troubled spirit pass'd
A dream of unclimb'd hills, and forests vast,
And sea-like lakes, and shadowy rivers lone.
On purple heath flowers, while the black stream crept
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But soon before my troubled spirit pass'd
A dream of unclimb'd hills, and forests vast,
And sea-like lakes, and shadowy rivers lone.
“And there, a man, whose youth seem'd palsied eld,
Mov'd, slow and faint, by wildering thought impell'd;
Yet beam'd the sorrow of his gentle eye,
With a sweet calmness, on the mountain's hoar,
And the magnificent Flora, and the shore
Of shipless waves, that swell'd to meet the sky.”
Mov'd, slow and faint, by wildering thought impell'd;
Yet beam'd the sorrow of his gentle eye,
With a sweet calmness, on the mountain's hoar,
And the magnificent Flora, and the shore
Of shipless waves, that swell'd to meet the sky.”
“And, oh,” he said, “falsehood, that truth-like seem'd!
I lov'd, and thought I was belov'd—I dream'd,—
Who hath had joys, and who hath woes, like mine?
The worm that gnaws the soul, hath found me out.
Can th' lightning blast like thee, thou withering doubt?
Suspicion! hath the wolf a fang like thine?”
I lov'd, and thought I was belov'd—I dream'd,—
Who hath had joys, and who hath woes, like mine?
The worm that gnaws the soul, hath found me out.
Can th' lightning blast like thee, thou withering doubt?
Suspicion! hath the wolf a fang like thine?”
“Farewell for ever!—and, oh, thank'd be thou,
Realm of the roaring surge, that part'st us now!
And hail, ye pathless swamps, ye unsail'd floods!—
Thou owest nought, thou glistening snake, to me;
Hiss! if thou wilt! I ask not love of thee.
And then he plung'd into the night of woods.”
Realm of the roaring surge, that part'st us now!
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Thou owest nought, thou glistening snake, to me;
Hiss! if thou wilt! I ask not love of thee.
And then he plung'd into the night of woods.”
XIII.
“A Milton!” loudly Mathew cried;“A Milton!” ten harsh throats replied;
And Charles look'd round, with scornful air,
Prouder than Punch at country fair:
While Jacob, by th' applauding laugh
Rous'd from his wonted stupor, gaz'd
On poet, groom, and all, amaz'd.
But bride's maid Nancy's well-timed tear,
More eloquent than words by half,
Paid to his powers, so loudly prais'd,
Applause, the sweetest and most dear.
The song had pathos! and she slept
Till it was ended; then she wept—
It was a way she had, a whim.
Unseen, he thought, for sly was he
(Yet not, perchance, more sly than she)
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Pass the rich bride-cake through the ring;
Doubtless, in hope to dream of him!
XIV.
Then Mathew to his umber'd cheek,Acquainted long with sun and wind,
Press'd drooping Mary's forehead meek;
And, “Bride!” he said, “now, now a treat!
(Nay, drive the mourner from thy mind!)
After the Epic, somewhat long,
Of our judicious man of song,
(Thy William's friend, also a prophet
That weeping love would soon tire of it,)
Give us a ballad short and sweet,
And, if more gay than sad, no worse;
Sadness—like dulness—is a curse.”
XV.
He ended, sneering at the poet,Who, although stung, seem'd not to know it:
She rose not from her Mathew's side,
But met his warm kiss, and complied.
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XVI.
THE BRIDE'S SONG.
“The frost was crisping o'er the Don;
Along his banks stray'd Ann with John;
The moon look'd through the rustling firs;
Her lover's hand was clasp'd in her's.
Oft look'd he backward, as he talk'd;
Towards Sprosbro's hazels slow they walk'd;
And, o'er the valley, lone, and low,
Frown'd, dark, the age of Conisbro.
Along his banks stray'd Ann with John;
The moon look'd through the rustling firs;
Her lover's hand was clasp'd in her's.
Oft look'd he backward, as he talk'd;
Towards Sprosbro's hazels slow they walk'd;
And, o'er the valley, lone, and low,
Frown'd, dark, the age of Conisbro.
“To-morrow, thou wilt wed me,” said
The ill-starr'd maiden, half afraid:
“And, when the rose and woodbine here
Shall blush through morning's dewy tear,
The unborn babe, begot in sin,
That, hapless, leaps my womb within,
Shall smile on thee, and on thy bride,
And I will smile on him, with pride.”
The ill-starr'd maiden, half afraid:
“And, when the rose and woodbine here
Shall blush through morning's dewy tear,
The unborn babe, begot in sin,
That, hapless, leaps my womb within,
Shall smile on thee, and on thy bride,
And I will smile on him, with pride.”
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“But she, too well, alas, he knew,
Nor rose, nor woodbine more, should view!
And, as she bent his hand to kiss,
He aim'd a blow, and did not miss,
But plung'd his knife into her side,
And whelm'd her, shrieking, in the tide:
Then, as with lightning wing'd, fled he,
To join the Yankees o'er the sea.
Nor rose, nor woodbine more, should view!
And, as she bent his hand to kiss,
He aim'd a blow, and did not miss,
But plung'd his knife into her side,
And whelm'd her, shrieking, in the tide:
Then, as with lightning wing'd, fled he,
To join the Yankees o'er the sea.
“Thine eye is clos'd, Ann! not in sleep,—
Thou never more shalt wake to weep:
Cold is thy brow, and cold thy bed;
The morning from thy cheek is fled;
Thy blood is ice, thy pains are o'er,
And even thy dark wound bleeds no more:
Tears cannot heal thy wounded name,
But death hath quench'd thy burning shame.
Thou never more shalt wake to weep:
Cold is thy brow, and cold thy bed;
The morning from thy cheek is fled;
Thy blood is ice, thy pains are o'er,
And even thy dark wound bleeds no more:
Tears cannot heal thy wounded name,
But death hath quench'd thy burning shame.
“They said the babe leap'd in thy womb!
That unborn baby shares thy tomb;—
Where the torn heart is low at rest;
The rose is with'ring on thy breast,
And, emblem of thy sex and woe,
The lily in thine hand of snow.
Short was thy path, and strewed with pain—
But, sister, we shall meet again!”
That unborn baby shares thy tomb;—
Where the torn heart is low at rest;
The rose is with'ring on thy breast,
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The lily in thine hand of snow.
Short was thy path, and strewed with pain—
But, sister, we shall meet again!”
XVII.
She ceas'd, but not the flowing tear;Nor was she then sole weeper there.
What Mathew felt he would not own,
But cough'd, to keep the woman down;
Nor did he vainly cough, or long;
Rather than weep, he sung a song.
XVIII. THE BRIDEGROOM'S SONG.
“A widow, who, dwelling on ocean's wild shore,Had mourn'd her dead husband six months, perhaps, more,
Saw a gallant approaching, with comical air:
He touch'd her soft hand, while he swore she was fair;
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Then he took up her apron, to wipe her sad eye,
But, wondering to see it so suddenly dry,
Said, “Come, kiss me!” and—What could she do, but comply?”
XIX.
He ceas'd, and from the room withdrew,While Mary blush'd shame's deepest hue,
And, like a daisy bent with dew,
Look'd, in confusion, on the ground.
Fast then the brimful horn went round.
Who miss'd the bridegroom, save the bride?
An hour had pass'd; he came not back:
She writh'd, like victim stretch'd on rack,
And twitch'd, as if on wasps she sate,
Her wriggling bum from side to side.
And now the ale in Jacob's pate
Confused his brain with eddying swirl:
Snake-like, began he to uncurl.
“The bridegroom,” snigger'd he, “is gone,
And shall the bride sit there alone?”
173
While, in the hell of jealousy,
That almost turn'd her blood to tinder,
Grim Sarah smok'd, like steak on cinder,
And froth'd, and fired, with ire and heat.
But Mary, who disliked her seat,
Dealt on his mouth and ruby nose,
With Amazonian fist, her blows,
And laid him, bleeding, at her feet.
Oh, holy wedded love! divine
Discord in unison! 'tis thine
Our hope, our stay, our shield to prove,
When ills assail! and, wedded love,
When tender Sarah saw his blood,
She felt thy power, as good wife should.
Hideous, she rush'd to claw the victor;
But Mary stepp'd aside, and kick'd her;
And Sarah prone on Jacob fell,
Who wish'd her (so th' unmarried tell,
And so he fondly said) in hell,—
Meaning that pillow peaceable,
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Of whom, and second nuptials, too,
The widow'd think the lone night through,
And, finding joy in sorrow, weep.
XX.
Then Mary to the window drew,And, hid behind the curtain blue,
Look'd out into the dismal night.
Gone was the universal white;
Wild heaven with skurrying clouds was spread;
And through the darkness rush'd the light
Oft, as the wan moon, overhead,
Like murder chas'd by conscience, fled;
And lovely was th' illumin'd cloud,
As, on the tip of virgin dead,
The smile that mocks her stainless shroud.
And, as a maniac bends aghast,
Smiting his clench'd hands high and fast,
Did many a huge tree, in the blast
Wave, crashing loud, his branches vast,
Between her and the light.
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And Mexbro, by his side, asleep;
And all the snow was in the stream,
Roaring beneath the fitful beam;
But the wild rain had ceas'd to pour.
Then o'er her heart chill terror crept,
And fancy, sad enthusiast, wept,
And heard the distant waters roar.
“Did Mathew, on that gloomy shore,
Where the voic'd billows wail of woe,
As, dread, in frantic whirls, they flow,
Seek him, the man of mystery?
But little good bodes he to me.
Ah!—ne'er be that thought realiz'd!—
Wedded in vain, and vainly priz'd,
Deep in the wave lies Mathew, drown'd?”
She look'd, but vainly look'd around:
Yet some one mov'd, or seem'd to move,
She thought, between the house and grove:
On tiptoe stood the anxious dame!
But o'er the moon, like envy, came
Darkness—and all was dread and woe.
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The hawthorn shakes her lovely flowers
Beneath th' half-shaded beam of noon,
Which, glimmering on the pale wave, soon
Vanishes with the dying breeze,
And the cloud deepens o'er the trees,
While green-isled Morley, dark and still,
Listens beneath the glooming hill.
But, while she stood entranc'd in woe,
The door flew open wide; and, lo,
A stranger enter'd! “Mathew? No!”
With clench'd hands, and retracted form,
Like sapling bent beneath the storm,
Or statue of Despair, she stood.
“Where is thy husband, Mathew Hall?”
Exclaim'd, in seeming sullen mood,
That age-bent stranger, broad and tall,
With spade-like beard of reddish grey.
The bride, who scarce knew what to say,
Stood mute awhile, then, half afraid,
“Art thou my husband's friend?” she said.
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“His best, his worst, his only one.”
Forthwith, unask'd, he took his seat;
While Jacob, once more on his feet,
Warbled a stave, with gruntle sweet,
Such as was used in times pass'd long,
Ere notes and tunes were known in song.
XXI. JACOB'S SONG.
“Said young Nell to her husband old,While on stout Jem she smil'd;
“Thy back and belly both are cold,
And time hath thee beguil'd;
And Joe, when back won't warm the bed,
Nor belly warm the broth,
Is't not high time that grace were said?
Alack, alack for both!”
XXII.
Then to the stranger Jacob broughtThe punch he lov'd; and, at a draught,
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“What emptyness in this world is!”
Sigh'd Jacob, as with drowthy scowl,
Angry, he ey'd the empty bowl.
“My thirsty friend! thou canst, I see,
Make with thine old acquaintance free.
I hope thou wilt, to bless our ears,
And melt our eyes in music's tears,
Honour the wedding with a song,
Sad as thy phiz, but not so long.”
The reverend man his wrath controll'd,
And answer'd calmly: “Though I'm old,
I still have music in my soul.”
And wonder soon, on every face,
Hearken'd his deep and mellow bass.
XXIII. THE STRANGER'S SONG.
“Star!—brightest thou of all that beam
O'er nightly hill, on wood and stream!—
Fair is thy light o'er wilds afar,
And lovely is thy silence, star!
How calm thou art! while cloud and forest rave,
And tempests wildly wing the whirling wave.
O'er nightly hill, on wood and stream!—
Fair is thy light o'er wilds afar,
And lovely is thy silence, star!
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And tempests wildly wing the whirling wave.
“What hand unseen hath rent thy shroud?
Black rolls aloft the broken cloud:
Lo! Care walks here, with troubled eye,
To chase thee through the hurried sky!
Why? what art thou? A world of woe, like this,
A world of weeping toil, and fleeting bliss,
Black rolls aloft the broken cloud:
Lo! Care walks here, with troubled eye,
To chase thee through the hurried sky!
Why? what art thou? A world of woe, like this,
A world of weeping toil, and fleeting bliss,
“Where wretches curse their hour of birth,
And whence they eye the distant earth,
(A star to them, as thou to me,)
And,—frantic in their misery,—
Wish they could mount, at once, the reinless wind,
And leave, at once, their woes and thee behind!
And whence they eye the distant earth,
(A star to them, as thou to me,)
And,—frantic in their misery,—
Wish they could mount, at once, the reinless wind,
And leave, at once, their woes and thee behind!
“Would I were as the dust I tread!
Welcome, thou cold and wormy bed!
That me no more might vice enthrall,
Nor folly tempt to climb and fall,
Nor passion wild her unresisting slave
Fling, careless, o'er the rock, and wilder'd wave.
Welcome, thou cold and wormy bed!
That me no more might vice enthrall,
Nor folly tempt to climb and fall,
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Fling, careless, o'er the rock, and wilder'd wave.
“Then, mother earth! to this sad heart
Th' envenom'd fang no more would dart!
And still, with many a cherish'd tear,
A form of grace might visit here,
And oft bend o'er my dust, and letter'd stone,
Like storm-dwarf'd yew tree, mournful and alone.
Th' envenom'd fang no more would dart!
And still, with many a cherish'd tear,
A form of grace might visit here,
And oft bend o'er my dust, and letter'd stone,
Like storm-dwarf'd yew tree, mournful and alone.
“Star! would night's queen then haste to streak,
Through widow'd locks, a wither'd cheek,
And fondly, on her forehead fair,
In shadow, paint her drooping hair?
Oh! for repose! my soul with woe is press'd
Down, down to earth, and yearns to be at rest.”
Through widow'd locks, a wither'd cheek,
And fondly, on her forehead fair,
In shadow, paint her drooping hair?
Oh! for repose! my soul with woe is press'd
Down, down to earth, and yearns to be at rest.”
XXIV.
He ceas'd. The bride, perturb'd, amaz'd,Still on the age-bent stranger gaz'd,
And felt his accents in her soul.
Soon his sad gloom became a scowl;
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“Why thy first husband left thy side?
And why, in late apostacy,
Thou hast espous'd a worse than he,
Who (like the friendless winds, that roam
O'er heaven's broad desert) hath no home,
But flies to mourn, yet not to weep,
While earth to him is, as the cloud
On which, in vain to slumber bow'd,
The thunder would, but cannot, sleep?”
XXV.
“I am, indeed,” she said, “bereft
Of him I lov'd!—but why he left
His faithful Mary, who shall tell?
Oh! still I love him, still too well!
I never gave him cause for flight.”
Of him I lov'd!—but why he left
His faithful Mary, who shall tell?
Oh! still I love him, still too well!
I never gave him cause for flight.”
“Except,” said he, “a scratch or bite,
On th' prominent proboscis, or a
Kick, now and then, i' th' guts.”—
On th' prominent proboscis, or a
Kick, now and then, i' th' guts.”—
“With sorrow,”
Resum'd the nettled bride, “I own
That, once, I knock'd my husband down;
But then, beneath my very nose,
He kiss'd, when drunk, that gipsey, Rose,
Who, ever hankering after fellows,
Thinks all their wives of her are jealous.
Besides, to make a husband fly,
That broken noddle, or black eye,
Is cause sufficient, I deny,
And thee to prove it such defy,
And would do, wert thou ten feet high;
Nor do I know why mine left me.
Yet oft I beg, on bended knee,
Heaven's pardon for th' unconscious crime,
Whate'er the hapless cause might be.
How slowly pass'd the heavy time!
At last,—when gone were ten sad years,—
A stranger found me in my tears,
And told me, that my William died,
On wintry Champlain's woody side.
He saw, the stranger saw, and tried
To soothe, with words, my heart's despair.
He was not, like my William, fair;
But, underneath a brow of care,
His amber'd cheek was manly brown;
And, o'er his woe-worn features thrown,
Oft pass'd a rapid smile and wild,—
The sweetness of a dreaming child
Mix'd with the warrior's majesty.
And he had been my William's friend,
The soother of his journey's end.
Together had they roam'd the woods,
And cross'd the dread Columbian floods;
Together had they fought and fled,
On Champlain's side together bled;
And there he saw my William die.
With throbbing breast, and flowing eye,
I lov'd, I deeply lov'd, to hear
The stranger talk of one so dear,
Of William's fondness, William's fate,
And late repentance, ah, too late!—
He named me, with his dying breath!
He bless'd me, in the arms of death!
This lock is all he could bequeath,
To her who—oh, those tears of thine,
Old man, already pardon mine!—
And welcome still the stranger came;
And still in dreams I sigh'd his name;
And still the oft-told tale was sweet;
And still would he the tale repeat;
(He was to me even as a brother!)
And, while our tears in concert stream'd,
I mourn'd my husband,—so I dream'd,—
I mourn'd him—till I lov'd another!
But could my earliest love return,
My William whom I still will mourn,
I would for him renounce”—she sigh'd,—
“Mathew, and all the world beside.”
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That, once, I knock'd my husband down;
But then, beneath my very nose,
He kiss'd, when drunk, that gipsey, Rose,
Who, ever hankering after fellows,
Thinks all their wives of her are jealous.
Besides, to make a husband fly,
That broken noddle, or black eye,
Is cause sufficient, I deny,
And thee to prove it such defy,
And would do, wert thou ten feet high;
Nor do I know why mine left me.
Yet oft I beg, on bended knee,
Heaven's pardon for th' unconscious crime,
Whate'er the hapless cause might be.
How slowly pass'd the heavy time!
At last,—when gone were ten sad years,—
A stranger found me in my tears,
And told me, that my William died,
On wintry Champlain's woody side.
He saw, the stranger saw, and tried
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He was not, like my William, fair;
But, underneath a brow of care,
His amber'd cheek was manly brown;
And, o'er his woe-worn features thrown,
Oft pass'd a rapid smile and wild,—
The sweetness of a dreaming child
Mix'd with the warrior's majesty.
And he had been my William's friend,
The soother of his journey's end.
Together had they roam'd the woods,
And cross'd the dread Columbian floods;
Together had they fought and fled,
On Champlain's side together bled;
And there he saw my William die.
With throbbing breast, and flowing eye,
I lov'd, I deeply lov'd, to hear
The stranger talk of one so dear,
Of William's fondness, William's fate,
And late repentance, ah, too late!—
He named me, with his dying breath!
He bless'd me, in the arms of death!
This lock is all he could bequeath,
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Old man, already pardon mine!—
And welcome still the stranger came;
And still in dreams I sigh'd his name;
And still the oft-told tale was sweet;
And still would he the tale repeat;
(He was to me even as a brother!)
And, while our tears in concert stream'd,
I mourn'd my husband,—so I dream'd,—
I mourn'd him—till I lov'd another!
But could my earliest love return,
My William whom I still will mourn,
I would for him renounce”—she sigh'd,—
“Mathew, and all the world beside.”
XXVI.
“Renounce him then, at once for me!”Exclaim'd that man of mystery.
“Dost thou not know me, woman, say?
Behold thy husband, William Bray!”
And round her neck his arms he threw,
And cried, “What now? Why this ado?”
And kiss'd, as he would kiss her through.
185
Off, dotard, off! or thou shalt rue
My biting tooth, and tearing nail.”
Then glowr'd she—neither pleas'd, nor civil,—
Like one who thinks he sees the devil,
And knows him by his horns and tail.
“Thou?—thou my husband, William Bray?
Why thou art, as a badger, grey!”
Quoth he, “I am, and well I may;
I have been absent many a day.”
“But,” shrilly yell'd she in dismay,
“Thou art as ugly as thou'rt grey,
With whiskers red, as reynard's tail,
And square beard, like a windmill sail.—
Why dost thou still, so goat-like, eye me?—
Thou William?—Devil, I defy thee.”
XXVII.
She said, and cross'd herself, in fear,And surely thought a fiend was near,
And, trembling, hoped, (for doubts came o'er her,)
It was the devil that stood before her!
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And she, to bear suspense unable,
Flew at him, overturning th' table,
And seem'd, in tooth and claw, a dragon,
Resolv'd to leave him not a rag on.
Lord, what a pickle he was in!
His bones almost fled out of's skin;
For, in a second, the virago
Had left him scarce a thread to take to.
And first the long beard left his chin,
Then fell to earth his cloak so big,
His cat-skin cap, his worsted wig;
And, like enchantress, self-enchanted,
Gaz'd Mary—on the man she wanted!
He stoop'd no more like toothless eighty,
Or porter beneath burden weighty,
But stood before her strait and young;
And locks of darkest auburn hung,
Cluster'd, above his martial brow,
While love laugh'd on his lip below.
Oh, love, thou still play'st queer tricks many,
Though old and tame, I play not any!
187
XXVIII.
“Twice-wedded widow! do not bawl—Twice woo'd! twice won! turn not away—
Behold thy husband, Mathew Hall!
Behold thy husband, William Bray!—
Oh, dearest, and in trouble tried,
Receive me to thy faithful side!
Oh, then most constant, when untrue!
Forgiveness is contrition's due;
Forgive!—and I will quit thee never,
But spurn suspicion, and for ever,
Cast o'er thy faults affection's mist,
And humbly kiss thy gentle fist.”
XXIX.
She hung upon his bosom, weak;She look'd the love she could not speak.
He smil'd the rose back to her cheek:
“Thou fond and full heart! do not break.”
He seal'd with kisses warm her lips;
And—as the half-flying redbreast sips
188
Then, perching on it, trills his song;—
So kiss'd he off her tears, to rest
Soothing the heart-throb, tortur'd long.
Like fairy, shod with gossamer,
Joy, unexpected, came to her,
For pass'd woe to atone.
Her lip lay on his neck embrac'd:
As if an angel's glance had chas'd
Her darkness, it was gone.
And who shall boast a heroine like mine?
Not more than woman, yet almost divine,
Minerva-like in battle she appears,
Venus in love, and Niobe in tears;
Before her Laila, Constance fade to air;
And ten to nothing! she shall thrash Gulnare!
XXX.
Then all said—what they had to say;And all shook hands with William Bray,
Save Jacob, who, in drink profound,
Lay stretch'd out huge along the ground.
189
The broken heart of Harry smil'd,
Through tears, like those which saints in heaven
Shed to behold a foe forgiven.
It was, indeed, a glorious wedding!
Charles, all on fire to write upon it,
Swore 'twas a subject for a sonnet,
And, bard-like, in his haste to write,
Forgot to wish his love good night;
But Nancy stay'd to see the bedding.
And learnedly the learn'd have shown
The stocking then, once more, was thrown:
And ancient Night relax'd her brow,
And felt, 'tis said, she scarce knew how,
While, with her grey tongue's watery tip,
She lick'd her greenish gums and lip;
And clapp'd her glasses on her nose,
Right loath a sight o' th' fun to lose;
And stoop'd, and star'd, with twinkling eye,
And crisp'd with smiles her cheek awry,
Like crumpled dish-clout laid to dry,
190
And broke her blue and only tooth;
Then thought, like many a matron staid,
Of many a prank that love had play'd,
In times gone by, beneath her shade;
Forgot her crutch, her age, her pain,
And liv'd her young years o'er again.
191
POEMS.
193
FRAGMENT.
Though dark around, and dark before,If dark the past, why look behind,
On pleasures that will please no more,
Virtues, whose failure stings the mind,
Abortive deeds, and wishes blind?
Still comes the fiend, that comes in vain;
Still shrieks regret on every wind,
And murders murder'd hope again.
Remembrance is the urn of pain.
194
TO THE MICHAELMAS DAISY.
Weep, daisy pale of Michaelmas,
And droop beneath the blast and shower!
The cloud-shade o'er the waving grass
Flits; swiftly comes the stormy hour:
Widow of summer! soon the power
That life abhors, shall strip thee bare,
And leave thee, 'reft of beauty's dower,
Without a gem to hang in air.
And droop beneath the blast and shower!
The cloud-shade o'er the waving grass
Flits; swiftly comes the stormy hour:
Widow of summer! soon the power
That life abhors, shall strip thee bare,
And leave thee, 'reft of beauty's dower,
Without a gem to hang in air.
No more the flame-wing'd moth is seen,
Hovering o'er flowers, a living gem;
Each gnat, and worm, with robe of sheen,
Droop, for the sun was life to them;
The small birds, on the leafless stem,
Mutely the faded grove bewail;
Flora hath lost her diadem,
And, joyless, sees the blasted vale.
Hovering o'er flowers, a living gem;
Each gnat, and worm, with robe of sheen,
Droop, for the sun was life to them;
The small birds, on the leafless stem,
Mutely the faded grove bewail;
Flora hath lost her diadem,
And, joyless, sees the blasted vale.
195
Last of the flowers! the heavy gale
That shakes the broad oak's leaves o'er thee—
Thy deathly hue of purple pale—
Are sad to hear, and sad to see!
Ah! with what pain, what ling'ring, we
Dwell on those awful words, “The last!”
Ah! hopeless flower! thou speak'st to me
But of despair, the past, the past!
That shakes the broad oak's leaves o'er thee—
Thy deathly hue of purple pale—
Are sad to hear, and sad to see!
Ah! with what pain, what ling'ring, we
Dwell on those awful words, “The last!”
Ah! hopeless flower! thou speak'st to me
But of despair, the past, the past!
Herald of winter, hark!—the blast,
That harshly bends thee, seems to say,
“Earth's glory blooms to fade, how fast!
A flower, a flash, it hastes away,
A moment bright, then lost for aye!”
What is duration but a flower?
When shall his last, last leaf decay?
Oh! when shall die Time's final hour?
That harshly bends thee, seems to say,
“Earth's glory blooms to fade, how fast!
A flower, a flash, it hastes away,
A moment bright, then lost for aye!”
What is duration but a flower?
When shall his last, last leaf decay?
Oh! when shall die Time's final hour?
196
TO THE WOOD ANEMONE.
Why dost thou close thine eye,Demurest mourner, why?
Say, did the fragrant night-breeze rudely kiss
Thy drooping forehead fair,
And press thy dewy hair,
With amorous touch, embracing all amiss?
And, therefore, flow'ret meet,
Glow on thy snowy cheek
Hues, less to shame, than angry scorn, allied,
Yet lovely, as the bloom
Of evening, on the tomb
Of one who injur'd liv'd, and slander'd died?
Or, did'st thou fondly meet
His soft lip Hybla-sweet?
And, therefore, doth the cold and loveless cloud
Thy wanton kissing chide?
And, therefore, would'st thou hide
Thy burning blush, thy cheek so sweetly bowed?
197
Say, hast thou wak'd and wept,
Because thy lord, the lord of love and light,
Had left thy pensive smile?
What western charms beguile
The fire-hair'd youth, forth from whose eye-lids bright
Are cast o'er night's deep sky
Her gems that flame on high?
That husband, whose warm glance thy soul reveres,
No flow'ret of the west
Detains, on harlot breast;
The envious cloud withholds him from thy tears.
A SKETCH OF ONE WHO CANNOT BE CARICATURED.
Friend! when thou walk'st, in majesty, abroad,Say, why doth laughter take, with thee, the road?
198
Straggling and sharp, are streak'd with greenish grey;
Though bristles arm thine horizontal nose,
While on thy cheek grow bristles stiff as those;
And though thine eyes are where thine ears should be;
Let not derision shake his sides at thee.
Nor, while with bended back, and elbows wide,
Thou bears't thy bum, on shuffling legs astride,
Let the girt horseman stop, in mute surprise,
As if, far off, he smelt thee with his eyes.
TO THE REVEREND------
Thee, ass deep-voic'd of not ungenial Zion,More than on heaven, the “unco gude” rely on!
Giant in stature, but in soul a fly!
Mind lost in body, fat, and six feet high!
199
Thy light is essence of the intellect,
Immur'd from sense, like gem of Giamschid,
Or owl's eye, luminous in a pyramid.
Is there a ranter who still wakes in vain
Th' unwilling maggots slumbering in his brain;
Spreading the lily hand, with vulgar grace,
Where rings usurp the splendid thimble's place?
Is there a saint, whom none could teach to stitch,
A disputant in holy lumber rich,
A bigot harsh, by pride and weakness taught,
Who damns the soul, but could not shape a coat?
Is there a can't-be tailor of the Lord,
Who quits his cloth to cut and mend the word,
Weekly purloin his wond'rous weekly sermon,
Steal common-place, and deem it dew of Hermon,
Demonstrate that a devil is, and be one,
Make earth a hell, but in his priestcraft see none?
Though in the hour of Nature's affluence made,
To feed the awful dung-cart with the spade,
Knight of the Goose, ere first of holy men,
Prick'd by the needle, thou assumest the pen.
200
And, if no goose, assuredly a gander!
Think not thy triumphs give my bosom smart;
What foe would wish thee other than thou art?
From tailor's board to th' sacred tub preferr'd,
Still may thy dire, somnific voice be heard
By mice perturb'd, while happier bipeds snore
(Rock'd by the tempest, heard so oft before)
And slumber praise thee still, and evermore!
ON SEEING A WILD HONEYSUCKLE IN FLOWER,
NEAR THE SOURCE OF THE RIVER DON, AUGUST 1817.
I.
What dost thou here, sweet woodbine wild?Like all-shunn'd wretch forlorn,
From good by rigid fate exil'd,
From hope's bless'd visions torn,
201
What dost thou here, wild woodbine flower?
Here verdure frowns! and, from on high,
Through vallies black and bare,
(The realm of cold sterility,
Where thou alone art fair,)
Don hastes, like pilgrim scorn'd and grey,
In search of richer scenes, away.
II.
How like a tyrant in distress,Though late, at last, betray'd,
This land appears in loneliness!
What gloom of light and shade!
Dark mirror of the darker storm,
On which the cloud beholds his form!
Like night in day, how vast and rude,
On all sides, frowns the heath!
This horror is not solitude,
This barrenness is death;
And here, in sable shroud array'd,
Nature, a giant corse, is laid.
202
III.
Is motion life? There rolls the cloud,The ship of sea-like heaven,
By hand unseen its canvas bowed,
Its gloomy streamers riven;
If sound is life, in accents stern,
Here ever moans the restless fern.
IV.
Yea, life is here! the plover sails,And, loud, torments the sky;
The wind, gaunt famine's herald, wails
Hungrily, hungrily;
The lean snake starts before my tread,
The dry brash cranshing o'er his head.
And, on grey Snealsden's summit lone,
The gloom-clad terrors dwell!
It is the tempest's granite throne,
It is the thunder's hell;
Hark! his dread voice! his glance of ire
Gleams, and the darkness melts in fire.
203
In swift rage at my side;
The bleak crag, lowering o'er his course,
Scorns sullenly his pride;
Time's eldest born! with naked breast,
And marble shield, and flinty crest,
And thou, at his etersial feet,
To make the desert sport,
Bloom'st, all alone, wild woodbine sweet,
Like modesty at court:
No leaf, save thine, is here to bless;
How lonely is thy loveliness!
Far hence thy sister is, the rose,
That virgin-fancied flower;
Nor almond here, nor lilac grows,
To form th' impassion'd bower;
Nor may thy beauteous languor rest
Its pale cheek on the lily's breast.
Who breathes thy sweets? Thou bloom'st in vain
Where none thy charms may see!
Save kite, or wretch like homeless Cain,
What guest shall visit thee?
204
To be of such wild realm the queen!
FRAGMENT.
Heavier the load, more wild the way!And I am like the wretch aghast
Who, thrown on aged ocean grey,
Struggles—for what? to sink, at last.
Still deeper, darker, shade on shade!
If vain the strife, why strive so long?
Is there no hope? Oh, God, thine aid!
Only in thee, the weak are strong.
TO THE REVEREND J.B.------
WITH A COPY OF NIGHT.
A care-aged Bard of thirty-eight,Weighing two stone more than cuckold's weight,
205
But would be clever, if he could be;
Who—lo, what good the loves have done him!—
Has had eight bantlings father'd on him,
And, though he ne'er had free grace any,
Might tell his faults (some say they're many)
Like Byron, were he skill'd to word it,
But that he can't, like him, afford it;
Of form erect, and hurried pace,
Not rather rough-dash'd in the face;
Whose grizzly locks, that once were brown,
And somewhat curly, are his own;
Whose dark frock coat, and neckcloth plain,
Cause him to be for Quaker ta'en,
Or saint, (sad blunder!) or demure
Quack Doctor, who all ills can cure,
Save ills o' th' pocket, which the poet
Would hide just now, but cannot do it;
In stature dwarf'd, not five feet seven;
Too much to sheepish blushing given;
With ghost-like brow, and pale blue eye;
As question'd man in office, shy;
206
And prouder than the devil in hell;—
That bard, whom Night's black malice curses,
Because he scar'd her with his verses,
Sends you his poem, (many a worse is,)
Hoping you will with caution read it,
Vidé—take't as physic, when you need it,
In doses small; for such will steep
Clear optics soon in tuneful sleep,
Acting by th' blessing, or by th' charm,
And cannot do wise patients harm;
While heads with fudge fill'd full before
Have no occasion to take more
ELEGY.
Oh, Devon! when thy daughter died,The primrose peep'd on green hill's side,
The winds were laid, the melted snow
Was crystal in the river's flow,
207
The hazel's crimson tuft was seen,
The schoolboy sought the mossy lane
To watch the building thrush again,
And many a bird, on budding spray,
Rejoic'd in April's sweetest day:
She, too, rejoic'd, thy wond'rous child,
For in the arms of death she smil'd.
And when her wearied strength was spent,
When pale as marble monument,
Eliza mov'd and spoke no more,
And pain's disastrous strife was o'er;
Her prattling babes might deem she slept,
And wonder why their father wept.
Why wept he? If, with soul unmov'd,
From all who lov'd her, all she lov'd,
From husband, children, she could part,
And meet the blow that still'd her heart;
Why wept he? Not that she was gone
To sing beneath th' eternal throne,
And kiss in heaven, with holy joy,
Her youngest born, that fatal boy,
208
On him, still doom'd to walk with care.
Yes! still on him, from realms of light,
The seraph-matron bends her sight,
Still, still his friend in trouble tried,
Though sever'd from his lonely side.
He weeps!—for truth and beauty rest,
Beneath the shroud that wraps her breast;
Taste mourns a sister on her bier,
And more than genius moulders there.
The blessing of the sufferer
Bedews the turf that covers her;
And pallid want, from troubled sleep
Awakes, to think of her, and weep;
And orphans, taught by her to read,
Drop o'er her worth a silver bead.
She did not pass in scorn your door,
Ye drooping children of the poor!
The Sabbath-school she lov'd to seek;
(The heart's bless'd tear impearl'd her cheek;)
And, like an angel in a tomb,
Instruction smil'd away your gloom.
209
Her death serene, as evening's shade!
Oh, bless'd in life! in death how bless'd!
And bliss is her eternal rest.
SONG.
Must we part? Alas, for ever!
Now, an exile, I must go!
Wilt thou then forget thy Henry,
Sad and hopeless? Mary, No.
Now, an exile, I must go!
Wilt thou then forget thy Henry,
Sad and hopeless? Mary, No.
Still, at night, when, faint and weary,
Far from thee, to rest I go,
Can I, ev'n in dreams, forget thee?
Angel of my visions! No.
Far from thee, to rest I go,
Can I, ev'n in dreams, forget thee?
Angel of my visions! No.
210
EXTEMPORE LINES.
When long the drama, in a sordid age,Had droop'd, an exile; to the desert stage
Impassion'd nature, weeping as she smil'd,
Led, by the trembling hand, her darling child:
Even from the worms, upstarted buried spleen,
While Shakespeare's dust, in transport, murmur'd,—“Kean!”
ILDERIM.
I
'Twas when th' unholiest warfare drench'd in bloodColumbia. Of her woes spectator, stood
Ilderim, laughing with vindictive ire.
Where terror hymns th' Eternal, sojourns he
211
Maketh his diadem the meteor's fire.
II
Climes wild as fancy call him all their own:Dark, from his thunder-smitten granite throne
Of vast, extravagant greatness, he looks down
On worlds of woods, and borroweth of the night
Clouds, swirl'd with thunder, for a garment: bright
The lightnings play, beneath his shadow's frown.
III
“Now, now, devouring discord!” he exclaim'd,O'er land and lake, as wide the battle flam'd,
“Now extirpate this homicidal race!
Destroyers of my children! groan and wail!
Fiends of the deep, as spectred ocean pale!
Now sweep each other from earth's blasted face!
IV
“Dire was the day when ye the sad winds chain'd,And o'er the blue deep sought my isles profan'd!
212
And on my mountain-realm, in wrath and fear,
Thron'd my dark stature: will ye brave me here?
And smite my children at their parent's feet?
V
“Halt!—Goblins wan, your day of woe is come!Quake, like these Andes, while I stamp your doom!—
My sons shall furnish ye with dreams that shriek,
Wake ye to death, which none but white men dread,
Rip the red scalp from every coward head,
And laugh to scorn your womanish wailings weak!
VI
“Ye shadows of the ocean's drown'd, be pale!If mine eternal hatred ought avail,
Ye want not awful cause. Now shall ye feel
Pangs, not remorse; and curse the servile sea,
That bore your sires from shores without a tree,
To smite my forests with the spoiler's steel.”
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VII
Thus spake the tempest-rolling Ilderim,In accents like the shout of seraphim
Hailing th' Almighty. Took he then his shield
Of beaten fire, that scorch'd the fever'd air,
And bade th' unbridled elements prepare,
Slaves of his will, to bear him to the field.
VIII
Whirlwind and lightning roll'd his car abroad:High o'er the billows of the storm he rode,
And wanton'd in th' intolerable light;
And, while the heavens beneath his axle bow'd,
He smote, with iron stroke, the groaning cloud
Whose fiery blackness shrouded earth in night.
IX
Oh, not with wilder pomp and majesty(While clouds are scatter'd o'er the moaning sea,
And shipwreck's phantom far his sighing sends
Around the barren isles) the showery bow
214
And woods of gloom, and rocks, and torrents, bends!
X
Where'er he saw the white men's lightning flame,He stoop'd from burden'd air: wrathful, he came,
In fire and darkness, o'er their fiend-like war;
Shock'd them together with the thunder's crash,
Laugh'd as they writh'd beneath his fiery lash,
Then, with his frown of horror, chas'd them far.
TO A FRIEND IN HEAVEN.
I
The warmest heart is soonest chill'd;Contemn'd, it droops depress'd;
And if my own, to feign unskill'd,
Seem'd cold, because unbless'd;
215
And by thy locks, too early grey!
Best friend, and lov'd the best!
Forgive a bleeding heart in me,
False to itself, but not to thee!
II
When calumny hath shot his dart,And envy done her worst;
When parted hearts that should not part,
The worm of woe have nurst;
And when, on earth's frail hope and trust,
Death deep hath stamp'd his seal in dust;
Then truth through doubt shall burst,
To clear the mind's long-clouded view;
And now thou know'st thy friend was true!
III
Oh, better thus be lowly laid,Than live, with sorrow worn,
To say, while life's best visions fade,
“The blissful are unborn!”
216
The scorn that stabs, and scorn it, too,—
Or pity worse than scorn!
To see the seeming friend a foe,
And all the happy fly from woe!
IV
Hard lesson, cheap at any price,And sternly taught to me,
That human nature's cowardice
Is woe's worst enemy!
Pride spurns the fallen; strength aids the strong;
And he who does not, suffers wrong,
And bails iniquity;
But let the weak seem arm'd and still,
And they will fawn, who else would kill.
TO ONE WHO ONCE KNEW ME.
Frown'st thou, to think a wretch so poor as IDares write to thee? and dost thou wonder why?
217
I heard men hail thee blessed! and fear'd to write
To one who—awful in his morning gown,—
Breakfasts no more on porridge greyly brown.
Now, bolder grown, I scrawl to thee a letter,
Hoping thou'lt deign to answer in a better;
For she, the Goddess whom the wise implore,
Hath rein'd, at length, her chariot at my door.
But truce with metaphors! methinks 'tis time
Plainly to speak, and write plain prose in rhyme.
This night, our rich aunt (may she still be richer!)
Sent me two guineas, and of ale a pitcher,
Besides four candles, and three quires of paper;
And, therefore, write I by my midnight taper,
As thriving author should, since never more
Will famine dare to enter at my door.
My wife is gone to bed, (there lies she, fair!)
That I may throne me on our only chair.
'Twould warm thy heart, could'st thou the poet see,
While my poor garret, bright as bright can be,
Seems lost in wonder at itself and me.
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I stole the candles, and the pitcher, too;
The very pot that holds our nightly beer,
Jealous o' th' ale, (or I mistake,) looks queer;
And—by this beef, 'tis true, as these are pies!—
A mouse peep'd, and scarce could trust his eyes,
Scarce could I mine. Lo, rising through the floor,
Again he peeps!—“What! dubious, as before?
There, sceptic! eat—and, henceforth, doubt no more.”—
As some lean rat, long parch'd in famine's hell,
Long doom'd by Fate, (but not content,) to smell
The pantry's viands, which he may not taste,
At length, gains entrance, and, with hunger's haste,
Licks on Sir Loin's fresh cheek the dewy rose,
Dips in the bliss of broth his ravish'd nose,
Or, lapping gravy from its china boat,
Feels as if furnish'd with new tongue and throat;
So I, long darkling through each dreary night
Enjoy in gloom the luxury of light,
With famine blue, on savoury steaks regale,
Transported, quaff the amber heaven of ale,
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What witch has chang'd to me thy cream-fac'd friend?—
But writing is a task of thirsty pain:
Friend of my youth! I'll drink thy health again—
Alas! my pitcher rues inebriate theft!
Not one, one thought-inspiring drop is left!
Ah, why depart so soon ye visions, bright
With feastful days, and nights of candle-light?
I see to-morrow in this empty pitcher!
Oh, had I cobbled shoes, or been a ditcher,
Or, like the devil, dealt in liquid fire,
And kept a dram-shop, with good Christians nigher,
Though poor, perchance as now, I had not been
Half-craz'd, blue-grey, and, as a broomstick, lean.
EXTEMPORE LINES.
John, who ne'er blush'd, is chaste, tho' rarely civil,While blushing Bill's queer tricks would shame the devil;
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A specimen of fossil impudence,
Worthy of everlasting preservation,
To edify each future generation.
THE DEVIL ON SNEALSDEN-PIKE.
Dark on his raft Napoleon stood,And, looking towards us o'er the flood,
Vow'd what he would do, if he could;
When on Holemoss, the powers of evil,
Each great, and every little devil
Met, his high deeds to celebrate.
Belzebub sat i' th' midst in state,
And held and wav'd, in sulphury hand,
Thick as my arm, a lighted brand,
O' th' marrow made of heroes brave
As ever won an envied grave,
Who, fearless, fought, but fought in vain,
In Underwalden's battle slain.
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And loud, their long tails lash'd the ground;
And deep the devil his daffy's took,
Till star and planet o'er him shook,
And sometimes three moons, sometimes two,
Danc'd hornpipes to his maudlin view,
Though split and torn appear'd they all,
Like Suffolk cheeses, broke with mall.
And higher still his voice he rais'd
The more he drank, and, winking, prais'd
His pupil's Machiavelian brains
Which, draining Europe's richest veins,
Made freedom's champions fight for chains,
While mercy, pale with horror, fled.
“And come what may,” the devil said,
“Let Boney fall, or higher soar.
“Freedom shall fall, to rise no more.”
Thus did the feast infernal end?
No—powers of goodness us defend!—
For then they drank, on bended knee,
Their hero's health, with three times three;
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To feed on fiery pangs in hell,
Did ne'er to earth such scene appear,
Did never earth such tumult hear.
But when, with hiss of snaky pinions,
All drunk, they sought their own dominions,
Steeds broke the tether; from the stall
Forth rush'd the ox, o'er hedge and wall;
And—worst of all, and worse than all,—
Old Satan, from the hubbub hieing,
Paus'd on the blast, and from his hand,
Where clouds on Snealsden-Pike are flying,
Dropp'd, with malicious grin, his brand;
When, stumbling o'er the fallen light,
A drunkard (late from Barnesly fair,
And wandering, lost, in murky air)
Stoop'd, took it, and, with mad delight,
Fir'd, on the mountain's side, the heath.
Dark, and more dark, the world beneath
Frown'd, as the flame spread wide and higher,
And Rumour had a tongue of fire.
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Holme, from his mist, sublimely lour'd;
Awak'd, grey Dead-Edge shook his brow;
And groaning Don fled, pale, below.
Far hamlets trembled as they gaz'd,
And Fear averr'd the beacon blaz'd;
And loud the Devil laugh'd on the wind,
Wagging his joyful tail behind,
While wrinkled on his rump the skin,
As if each hair had soul within.
Why clos'd grey Will his tavern door?
What asking crowds from all sides pour!
Why clanks so loud the hoof of steed?
Why yon pale horseman's darkling speed?
“Why but because our fleet is stranded,
And, worst that can be, Boney's landed,
And coming, like a—cataract;
And whores are ravish'd, pig-sties sack'd—
And York is burn'd—and Pontefract—
And rolling drums to glory call
The dreadful Locals, one and all?”—
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Hail, and endure! and, scorning Time,
Heroes of Rother, live in rhyme!—
And, hey for our town! 'tis a sight
To make a Cæsar die of fright!
And what a strange and mingled sound,
Like fire and water, underground!
It is the hum of hurried feet,
It is the Babel of the street,
Where Rawmarsh bears, and Greasbro witches,
Ask, snuffling, “What ail Tommy's breeches,
Who, puffing, comes, all bones and wind,
Dragging his bum a league behind?”
But pity's muse will best relate
The sorrows of that night of fate.
Love, of the ever ready tear,
Could not but be a mourner here.
Queer tears, and manag'd well, she shed,
By leering Tom, o'er faithful Ned;
Sad tears from pregnant Sukey's eye,
Tears of tried truth and constancy,
Some say, for Jack of Wickersly,
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And quarts of tears for brawny Bill.
Eyes, never stain'd with woe before,
Now blubber'd cheeks and bosom o'er,
For many a short, and many a tall one;
And soul-drops might be had by th' gallon.
THE END.
| Peter Faultless to his brother Simon | |